LIBRARY 

UNIVEIL     .  OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


THE   LOST  ROAD 


THE  NOVELS  AND  STORIES  OF 
RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS 


BY 


WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION    BY 

JOHN  T.  McCUTCHEON 


ILLUSTRATED 


1127 


The  first  seren  stories  In  this  volume  from  "The  Lost 
Road,"  copyright,  1813,  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S 
SONS;  "  Somewhere  in  France  "  and  "  The  Boy  Scout " 
from  "Somewhere  in  France,"  copyright,  1815,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS. 


•  The  Man  Who  Had  Everything,"  copyright,  1916  by  THB 
METROPOLITAN  MAGAZINE  CoMi-Any. 


COPYRIGHT,   1920,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 

MY  WIFE 


WITH  DAVIS  IN  VERA  CRUZ, 
BRUSSELS,  AND  SALONIKA 

IN  common  with  many  others  who  have  been  with 
Richard  Harding  Davis  as  correspondents,  I  find  it 
difficult  to  realize  that  he  has  covered  his  last  story 
and  that  he  will  not  be  seen  again  with  the  men 
who  follow  the  war  game,  rushing  to  distant  places 
upon  which  the  spotlight  of  news  interest  suddenly 
centres. 

It  seems  a  sort  of  bitter  irony  that  he  who  had 
covered  so  many  big  events  of  world  importance  in 
the  past  twenty  years  should  be  abruptly  torn  away 
in  the  midst  of  the  greatest  event  of  them  all,  while 
the  story  is  still  unfinished  and  its  outcome  unde 
termined.  If  there  is  a  compensating  thought,  it 
lies  in  the  reflection  that  he  had  a  life  of  almost 
unparalleled  fulness,  crowded  to  the  brim,  up  to 
the  last  moment,  with  those  experiences  and  achieve 
ments  which  he  particularly  aspired  to  have.  He 
left  while  the  tide  was  at  its  flood,  and  while  he  still 
held  supreme  his  place  as  the  best  reporter  in  his 
country.  He  escaped  the  bitterness  of  seeing  the 
ebb  set  in,  when  the  youth  to  which  he  clung  had 
slipped  away,  and  when  he  would  have  to  sit  im- 

vii 


patient  in  the  audience,  while  younger  men  were  in 
the  thick  of  great,  world-stirring  dramas  on  the 
stage. 

This  would  have  been  a  real  tragedy  in  "Dick" 
Davis's  case,  for,  while  his  body  would  have  aged, 
it  is  doubtful  if  his  spirit  ever  would  have  lost  its 
youthful  freshness  or  boyish  enthusiasm. 

It  was  my  privilege  to  see  a  good  deal  of  Davis 
in  the  last  two  years. 

He  arrived  in  Vera  Cruz  among  the  first  of  the 
sixty  or  seventy  correspondents  who  flocked  to  that 
news  centre  when  the  situation  was  so  full  of  sensa 
tional  possibilities.  It  was  a  time  when  the  Ameri 
can  newspaper-reading  public  was  eager  for  thrills, 
and  the  ingenuity  and  resourcefulness  of  the  corre 
spondents  in  Vera  Cruz  were  tried  to  the  uttermost 
to  supply  the  demand. 

In  the  face  of  the  fiercest  competition  it  fell  to 
Davis's  lot  to  land  the  biggest  story  of  those  days 
of  marking  time. 

The  story  "broke"  when  it  became  known  that 
Davis,  Medill  McCormick,  and  Frederick  Palmer 
had  gone  through  the  Mexican  lines  in  an  effort  to 
reach  Mexico  City.  Davis  and  McCormick,  with 
letters  to  the  Brazilian  and  British  ministers,  got 
through  and  reached  the  capital  on  the  strength  of 
those  letters,  but  Palmer,  having  only  an  American 
passport,  was  turned  back. 

After  an  ominous  silence  which  furnished  Ameri- 
viii 


WITH    DAVIS    IN    VERA   CRUZ 

can  newspapers  with  a  lively  period  of  suspense,  the 
two  men  returned  safely  with  wonderful  stories  of 
their  experiences  while  under  arrest  in  the  hands  of 
the  Mexican  authorities.  McCormick,  in  recently 
speaking  of  Davis  at  that  time,  said  that,  "as  a 
correspondent  in  difficult  and  dangerous  situations, 
he  was  incomparable — cheerful,  ingenious,  and  un- 
discouraged.  When  the  time  came  to  choose  be 
tween  safety  and  leaving  his  companion  he  stuck  by 
his  fellow  captive  even  though,  as  they  both  said, 
a  firing-squad  and  a  blank  wall  were  by  no  means 
a  remote  posssibility." 

This  Mexico  City  adventure  was  a  spectacular 
achievement  which  gave  Davis  and  McCormick  a 
distinction  which  no  other  correspondents  of  all 
the  ambitious  and  able  corps  had  managed  to  attain. 

Davis  usually  "hunted"  alone.  He  depended  en 
tirely  upon  his  own  ingenuity  and  wonderful  instinct 
for  news  situations.  He  had  the  energy  and  en 
thusiasm  of  a  beginner,  with  the  experience  and 
training  of  a  veteran.  His  interest  in  things  re 
mained  as  keen  as  though  he  had  not  been  years 
at  a  game  which  often  leaves  a  man  jaded  and 
blase.  His  acquaintanceship  in  the  American  army 
and  navy  was  wide,  and  for  this  reason,  as  well  as 
for  the  prestige  which  his  fame  and  position  as  a 
national  character  gave  him,  he  found  it  easy  to 
establish  valuable  connections  in  the  channels  from 
which  news  emanates.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  the 

ix 


WITH   DAVIS   IN   VERA  CRUZ 

fact  that  he  was  "on  his  own"  instead  of  having  a 
working  partnership  with  other  men,  he  was  gener 
ous  in  helping  at  times  when  he  was  able  to  do  so. 

Davis  was  a  conspicuous  figure  in  Vera  Cruz,  as 
he  inevitably  had  been  in  all  such  situations.  Wher 
ever  he  went,  he  was  pointed  out.  His  distinction 
of  appearance,  together  with  a  distinction  in  dress, 
which,  whether  from  habit  or  policy,  was  a  valuable 
asset  in  his  work,  made  him  a  marked  man.  He 
dressed  and  looked  the  "war  correspondent,"  such 
a  one  as  he  would  describe  in  one  of  his  stories.  He 
fulfilled  the  popular  ideal  of  what  a  member  of  that 
fascinating  profession  should  look  like.  His  code  of 
life  and  habits  was  as  fixed  as  that  of  the  Briton  who 
takes  his  habits  and  customs  and  games  and  tea 
wherever  he  goes,  no  matter  how  benighted  or 
remote  the  spot  may  be. 

He  was  just  as  loyal  to  his  code  as  is  the  Briton. 
He  carried  his  bath-tub,  his  immaculate  linen,  his 
evening  clothes,  his  war  equipment — in  which  he 
had  the  pride  of  a  connoisseur — wherever  he  went, 
and,  what  is  more,  he  had  the  courage  to  use  the 
evening  clothes  at  times  when  their  use  was  con 
spicuous.  He  was  the  only  man  who  wore  a  dinner 
coat  in  Vera  Cruz,  and  each  night,  at  his  particular 
table  in  the  crowded  "Portales,"  at  the  Hotel  Dili- 
gencia,  he  was  to  be  seen,  as  fresh  and  clean  as 
though  he  were  in  a  New  York  or  London  restaurant. 

Each  day  he  was  up  early  to  take  the  train  out 

x 


WITH  DAVIS  IN  VERA  CRUZ 

to  the  "gap,"  across  which  came  arrivals  from 
Mexico  City.  Sometimes  a  good  "story"  would 
come  down,  as  when  the  long-heralded  and  long- 
expected  arrival  of  Consul  Silliman  gave  a  first-page 
"feature"  to  all  the  American  papers. 

In  the  afternoon  he  would  play  water  polo  over 
at  the  navy  aviation  camp,  and  always  at  a  certain 
time  of  the  day  his  "striker"  would  bring  him  his 
horse  and  for  an  hour  or  more  he  would  ride  out 
along  the  beach  roads  within  the  American  lines. 

After  the  first  few  days  it  was  difficult  to  extract 
real  thrills  from  the  Vera  Cruz  situation,  but  we 
used  to  ride  out  to  El  Tejar  with  the  cavalry  patrol 
and  imagine  that  we  might  be  fired  on  at  some 
point  in  the  long  ride  through  unoccupied  territory; 
or  else  go  out  to  the  "front,"  at  Legarto,  where  a 
little  American  force  occupied  a  sun-baked  row  of 
freight-cars,  surrounded  by  malarial  swamps.  From 
the  top  of  the  railroad  water-tank,  we  could  look 
across  to  the  Mexican  outposts  a  mile  or  so  away. 
It  was  not  very  exciting,  and  what  thrills  we  got 
lay  chiefly  in  our  imagination. 

Before  my  acquaintanceship  with  Davis  at  Vera 
Cruz  I  had  not  known  him  well.  Our  trails  didn't 
cross  while  I  was  in  Japan  in  the  Japanese-Russian 
War,  and  in  the  Transvaal  I  missed  him  by  a  few 
days,  but  in  Vera  Cruz  I  had  many  enjoyable  op 
portunities  of  becoming  well  acquainted  with  him. 

The  privilege  was  a  pleasant  one,  for  it  served  to 

xi 


WITH  DAVIS   IN  VERA  CRUZ 

dispel  a  preconceived  and  not  an  entirely  favorable 
impression  of  his  character.  For  years  I  had  heard 
stories  about  Richard  Harding  Davis — stories  which 
emphasized  an  egotism  and  self-assertiveness  which, 
if  they  ever  existed,  had  happily  ceased  to  be  ob 
trusive  by  the  time  I  got  to  know  him. 

He  was  a  different  Davis  from  the  Davis  whom 
I  had  expected  to  find;  and  I  can  imagine  no  more 
charming  and  delightful  companion  than  he  was 
in  Vera  Cruz.  There  was  no  evidence  of  those 
qualities  which  I  feared  to  find,  and  his  attitude  was 
one  of  unfailing  kindness,  considerateness,  and  gen 
erosity. 

In  the  many  talks  I  had  with  him,  I  was  always 
struck  by  his  evident  devotion  to  a  fixed  code  of 
personal  conduct.  In  his  writings  he  was  the  inter 
preter  of  chivalrous,  well-bred  youth,  and  his  heroes 
were  young,  clean-thinking  college  men,  heroic  big- 
game  hunters,  war  correspondents,  and  idealized 
men  about  town,  who  always  did  the  noble  thing, 
disdaining  the  unworthy  in  act  or  motive.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  he  was  modelling  his  own  life, 
perhaps  unconsciously,  after  the  favored  types  which 
his  imagination  had  created  for  his  stories.  In  a 
certain  sense  he  was  living  a  life  of  make-believe, 
wherein  he  was  the  hero  of  the  story,  and  in  which 
he  was  bound  by  his  ideals  always  to  act  as  he 
would  have  the  hero  of  his  story  act.  It  was  a 
quality  which  only  one  could  have  who  had  pre- 

xii 


WITH    DAVIS    IN    VERA   CRUZ 

served  a  fresh  youth  fulness  of  outlook  in  spite  of 
the  hardening  processes  of  maturity. 

His  power  of  observation  was  extraordinarily 
keen,  and  he  not  only  had  the  rare  gift  of  sensing 
the  vital  elements  of  a  situation,  but  also  had,  to 
an  unrivalled  degree,  the  ability  to  describe  them 
vividly.  I  don't  know  how  many  of  those  men  at 
Verz  Cruz  tried  to  describe  the  kaleidoscopic  life  of 
the  city  during  the  American  occupation,  but  I 
know  that  Davis's  story  was  far  and  away  the  most 
faithful  and  satisfying  picture.  The  story  was  pho 
tographic,  even  to  the  sounds  and  smells. 

The  last  I  saw  of  him  in  Vera  Cruz  was  when,  on 
the  Utah,  he  steamed  past  the  flagship  Wyoming, 
upon  which  I  was  quartered,  and  started  for  New 
York.  The  Battenberg  cup  race  had  just  been 
rowed,  and  the  Utah  and  Florida  crews  had  tied. 
As  the  Utah  was  sailing  immediately  after  the  race, 
there  was  no  time  in  which  to  row  off  the  tie.  So 
it  was  decided  that  the  names  of  both  ships  should 
be  engraved  on  the  cup,  and  that  the  Florida  crew 
should  defend  the  title  against  a  challenging  cre\r 
from  the  British  Admiral  Craddock's  flagship. 

By  the  end  of  June,  the  public  interest  in  Vera 
Cruz  had  waned,  and  the  corps  of  correspondents 
dwindled  until  there  were  only  a  few  left. 

Frederick  Palmer  and  I  went  up  to  join  Carranza 
and  Villa,  and  on  the  26th  of  July  we  were  in  Mon 
terey  waiting  to  start  with  the  triumphal  march  of 

xiii 


WITH  DAVIS   IN  BRUSSELS 

Carranza's  army  toward  Mexico  City.  There  was 
no  sign  of  serious  trouble  abroad.  That  night  omi 
nous  telegrams  came,  and  at  ten  o'clock  on  the  fol 
lowing  morning  we  were  on  a  train  headed  for  the 
States. 

Palmer  and  Davis  caught  the  Lusitania,  sailing 
August  4  from  New  York,  and  I  followed  on  the 
Saint  Paul,  leaving  three  days  later. 

On  the  1 7th  of  August  I  reached  Brussels,  and  it 
seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  find 
Davis  already  there.  He  was  at  the  Palace  Hotel, 
where  a  number  of  American  and  English  corre 
spondents  were  quartered. 

Things  moved  quickly.  On  the  I9th  Irvin  Cobb, 
Will  Irwin,  Arno  Dosch,  and  I  were  caught  between 
the  Belgian  and  German  lines  in  Louvain;  our  re 
treat  to  Brussels  was  cut,  and  for  three  days,  while 
the  vast  German  army  moved  through  the  city,  we 
were  detained.  Then,  the  army  having  passed,  we 
were  allowed  to  go  back  to  the  capital. 

In  the  meantime  Davis  was  in  Brussels.  The 
Germans  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  city  on  the 
morning  of  the  2Oth,  and  the  correspondents  who 
had  remained  in  Brussels  were  feverishly  writing 
despatches  describing  the  imminent  fall  of  the  city. 
One  of  them,  Harry  Hansen,  of  the  Chicago  Daily 
News,  tells  the  following  story,  which  I  give  in  his 
words : 

"While  we  were  writing,"  says  Hansen,  "Richard 
xiv 


WITH    DAVIS    IN    BRUSSELS 

Harding  Davis  walked  into  the  writing-room  of  the 
Palace  Hotel  with  a  bunch  of  manuscript  in  his  hand. 
With  an  amused  expression  he  surveyed  the  three 
correspondents  filling  white  paper. 

"'I  say,  men/  said  Davis,  'do  you  know  when 
the  next  train  leaves  ?' 

"'There  is  one  at  three  o'clock,'  said  a  corre 
spondent,  looking  up. 

"'That  looks  like  our  only  chance  to  get  a  story 
out,'  said  Davis.  'Well,  we'll  trust  to  that.' 

"The  story  was  the  German  invasion  of  Brussels, 
and  the  train  mentioned  was  considered  the  forlorn 
hope  of  the  correspondents  to  connect  with  the  out 
side  world — that  is,  every  correspondent  thought  it 
to  be  the  other  man's  hope.  Secretly  each  had  pre 
pared  to  outwit  the  other,  and  secretly  Davis  had 
already  sent  his  story  to  Ostend.  He  meant  to 
emulate  Archibald  Forbes,  who  despatched  a  courier 
with  his  real  manuscript,  and  next  day  publicly 
dropped  a  bulky  package  in  the  mail-bag. 

"Davis  had  sensed  the  news  in  the  occupation  of 
Brussels  long  before  it  happened.  With  dawn  he 
went  out  to  the  Louvain  road,  where  the  German 
army  stood,  prepared  to  smash  the  capital  if  nego 
tiations  failed.  His  observant  eye  took  in  all  the 
details.  Before  noon  he  had  written  a  comprehen 
sive  sketch  of  the  occupation,  and  when  word  was 
received  that  it  was  under  way,  he  trusted  his  copy 
to  an  old  Flemish  woman,  who  spoke  not  a  word  of 

xv 


WITH  DAVIS   IN  BRUSSELS 

English,  and  saw  her  safely  on  board  the  train  that 
pulled  out  under  Belgian  auspices  for  Ostend." 

With  passes  which  the  German  commandant  in 
Brussels  gave  us  the  correspondents  immediately 
started  out  to  see  how  far  those  passes  would  carry 
us.  A  number  of  us  left  on  the  afternoon  of  August 
23  for  Waterloo,  where  it  was  expected  that  the 
great  clash  between  the  German  and  the  Anglo- 
French  forces  would  occur.  We  had  planned  to  be 
back  the  same  evening,  and  went  prepared  only  for 
an  afternoon's  drive  in  a  couple  of  hired  street  car 
riages.  It  was  seven  weeks  before  we  again  saw 
Brussels. 

On  the  following  day  (August  24)  Davis  started 
for  Mons.  He  wore  the  khaki  uniform  which  he 
had  worn  in  many  campaigns.  Across  his  breast 
was  a  narrow  bar  of  silk  ribbon  indicating  the  cam 
paigns  in  which  he  had  served  as  a  correspondent. 
He  so  much  resembled  a  British  officer  that  he  was 
arrested  as  a  British  derelict  and  was  informed  that 
he  would  be  shot  at  once. 

He  escaped  only  by  offering  to  walk  to  Brand 
Whitlock,  in  Brussels,  reporting  to  each  officer  he 
met  on  the  way.  His  plan  was  approved,  and  as  a 
hostage  on  parole  he  appeared  before  the  American 
minister,  who  quickly  established  his  identity  as  an 
American  of  good  standing,  to  the  satisfaction  of 
the  Germans. 

In  the  following  few  months  our  trails  were  widely 
xvi 


WITH  DAVIS  IN  SALONIKA 

separated.  I  read  of  his  arrest  by  German  officers 
on  the  road  to  Mons;  later  I  read  the  story  of  his 
departure  from  Brussels  by  train  to  Holland — a 
trip  which  carried  him  through  Louvain  while  the 
town  still  was  burning;  and  still  later  I  read  that  he 
was  with  the  few  lucky  men  who  were  in  Rheims 
during  one  of  the  early  bombardments  that  dam 
aged  the  cathedral.  By  amazing  luck,  combined 
with  a  natural  news  sense  which  drew  him  instinc 
tively  to  critical  places  at  the  psychological  mo 
ment,  he  had  been  a  witness  of  the  two  most  widely 
featured  stories  of  the  early  weeks  of  the  war. 

Arrested  by  the  Germans  in  Belgium,  and  later 
by  the  French  in  France,  he  was  convinced  that  the 
restrictions  on  correspondents  were  too  great  to 
permit  of  good  work. 

So  he  left  the  European  war  zone  with  the  widely 
quoted  remark:  "The  day  of  the  war  correspondent 
is  over." 

And  yet  I  was  not  surprised  when,  one  evening, 
late  in  November  of  last  year,  he  suddenly  walked 
into  the  room  in  Salonika  where  William  G.  Shep 
herd,  of  the  United  Press,  "Jimmy  Hare,"  the  vet 
eran  war  photographer,  and  I  had  established  our 
selves  several  weeks  before. 

The  hotel  was  jammed,  and  the  city,  with  a  nor 
mal  capacity  of  about  one  hundred  and  seventy-five 
thousand,  was  struggling  to  accommodate  at  least 
a  hundred  thousand  more.  There  was  not  a  room 

xvii 


WITH  DAVIS   IN  SALONIKA 

to  be  had  in  any  of  the  better  hotels,  and  for  several 
days  we  lodged  Davis  in  our  room,  a  vast  chamber 
which  formerly  had  been  the  main  dining-room  of 
the  establishment,  and  which  now  was  converted 
into  a  bedroom.  There  was  room  for  a  dozen  men, 
if  necessary,  and  whenever  stranded  Americans 
arrived  and  could  find  no  hotel  accommodations  we 
simply  rigged  up  emergency  cots  for  their  temporary 
use. 

1  he  weather  in  Salonika  at  this  time,  late  Novem 
ber,  was  penetratingly  cold.  In  the  mornings  the 
steam  coils  struggled  feebly  to  dispel  the  chill  in 
the  room. 

Early  in  the  morning  after  Davis  had  arrived,  we 
were  aroused  by  the  sound  of  violent  splashing, 
accompanied  by  shuddering  gasps,  and  we  looked 
out  from  the  snug  warmth  of  our  beds  to  see  Davis 
standing  in  his  portable  bath-tub  and  drenching 
himself  with  ice-cold  water.  As  an  exhibition  of 
courageous  devotion  to  an  established  custom  of 
life  it  was  admirable,  but  I'm  not  sure  that  it  was 
prudent. 

For  some  reason,  perhaps  a  defective  circulation 
or  a  weakened  heart,  his  system  failed  to  react  from 
these  cold-water  baths.  All  through  the  days  he 
complained  of  feeling  chilled.  He  never  seemed  to 
get  thoroughly,  warmed,  and  of  us  all  he  was  the 
one  who  suffered  most  keenly  from  the  cold.  It 
was  all  the  more  surprising,  for  his  appearance  was 

xviii 


WITH   DAVIS   IN   SALONIKA 

always  that  of  a  man  in  the  pink  of  athletic  fitness 
— ruddy-faced,  clear-eyed,  and  full  of  tireless  energy. 

On  one  occasion  we  returned  from  the  French 
front  in  Serbia  to  Salonika  in  a  box  car  lighted  only 
by  candles,  bitterly  cold,  and  frightfully  exhausting. 
We  were  seven  hours  in  travelling  fifty-five  miles, 
and  we  arrived  at  our  destination  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  Several  of  the  men  contracted 
desperate  colds,  which  clung  to  them  for  weeks. 
Davis  was  chilled  through,  and  said  that  of  all  the 
cold  he  had  ever  experienced  that  which  swept 
across  the  Macedonian  plain  from  the  Balkan  high 
lands  was  the  most  penetrating.  Even  his  heavy 
clothing  could  not  afford  him  adequate  protection. 

When  he  was  settled  in  his  own  room  in  our 
hotel  he  installed  an  oil-stove  which  burned  beside 
him  as  he  sat  at  his  desk  and  wrote  his  stories.  The 
room  was  like  an  oven,  but  even  then  he  still  com 
plained  of  the  cold. 

When  he  left  he  gave  us  the  stove,  and  when  we 
left,  some  time  later,  it  was  presented  to  one  of  our 
doctor  friends  out  in  a  British  hospital,  where  I'm 
sure  it  is  doing  its  best  to  thaw  the  Balkan  chill  out 
of  sick  and  wounded  soldiers. 

Davis  was  always  up  early,  and  his  energy  and 
interest  were  as  keen  as  a  boy's.  We  had  our  meals 
together,  sometimes  in  the  crowded  and  rather 
smart  Bastasini's,  but  more  often  in  the  maelstrom 
of  humanity  that  nightly  packed  the  Olympos  Pal- 

xix 


WITH  DAVIS  IN  SALONIKA 

ace  restaurant.  Davis,  Shepherd,  Hare,  and  I,  with 
sometimes  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Bass,  made  up  these 
parties,  which,  for  a  period  of  about  two  weeks  or 
so,  were  the  most  enjoyable  daily  events  of  our  lives. 

Under  the  glaring  lights  of  the  restaurant,  and 
surrounded  by  British,  French,  Greek,  and  Serbian 
officers,  German,  Austrian,  and  Bulgarian  civilians, 
with  a  sprinkling  of  American,  English,  and  Scotch 
nurses  and  doctors,  packed  so  solidly  in  the  huge, 
high-ceilinged  room  that  the  waiters  could  barely 
pick  their  way  among  the  tables,  we  hung  for  hours 
over  our  dinners,  and  left  only  when  the  landlord 
and  his  Austrian  wife  counted  the  day's  receipts 
and  paid  the  waiters  at  the  end  of  the  evening. 

One  could  not  imagine  a  more  charming  and  de 
lightful  companion  than  Davis  during  these  days. 
While  he  always  asserted  that  he  could  not  make  a 
speech,  and  was  terrified  at  the  thought  of  standing 
up  at  a  banquet-table,  yet,  sitting  at  a  dinner-table 
with  a  few  friends  who  were  only  too  eager  to  listen 
rather  than  to  talk,  his  stories,  covering  personal 
experiences  in  all  parts  of  the  world,  were  intensely 
vivid,  with  that  remarkable  "holding"  quality  of 
description  which  characterizes  his  writings. 

He  brought  his  own  bread — a  coarse,  brown  sort, 
which  he  preferred  to  the  better  white  bread — and 
with  it  he  ate  great  quantities  of  butter.  As  we  sat 
down  at  the  table  his  first  demand  was  for  "Mas- 
tika,"  a  peculiar  Greek  drink  distilled  from  mastic 

xx 


WITH   DAVIS    IN   SALONIKA 

gum,  and  his  second  demand  invariably  was  "Du 
beurre !"  with  the  "r's"  as  silent  as  the  stars;  and  if 
it  failed  to  come  at  once  the  waiter  was  made  to 
feel  the  enormity  of  his  tardiness. 

The  reminiscences  ranged  from  his  early  news 
paper  days  in  Philadelphia,  and  skipping  from  Man 
churia  to  Cuba  and  Central  America,  to  his  early 
Sun  days  under  Arthur  Brisbane;  they  ranged 
through  an  endless  variety  of  personal  experiences 
which  very  nearly  covered  the  whole  course  of 
American  history  in  the  past  twenty  years. 

Perhaps  to  him  it  was  pleasant  to  go  over  his 
remarkable  adventures,  but  it  could  not  have  been 
half  as  pleasant  as  it  was  to  hear  them,  told  as  they 
were  with  a  keenness  of  description  and  brilliancy  of 
humorous  comment  that  made  them  gems  of  narra 
tive. 

At  times,  in  our  work,  we  all  tried  our  hands  at 
describing  the  Salonika  of  those  early  days  of  the 
Allied  occupation,  for  it  was  really  what  one  widely 
travelled  British  officer  called  it — "the  most  amaz 
ingly  interesting  situation  I've  ever  seen" — but 
Davis's  description  was  far  and  away  the  best,  just 
as  his  description  of  Vera  Cruz  was  the  best,  and 
his  wonderful  story  of  the  entry  of  the  German 
army  into  Brussels  was  matchless  as  one  of  the 
great  pieces  of  reporting  in  the  present  war. 

In  thinking  of  Davis,  I  shall  always  remember 
him  for  the  delightful  qualities  which  he  showed 

xxi 


WITH  DAVIS   IN  SALONIKA 

in  Salonika.  He  was  unfailingly  considerate  and 
thoughtful.  Through  his  narratives  one  could  see 
the  pride  which  he  took  in  the  width  and  breadth 
of  his  personal  relation  to  the  great  events  of  the 
past  twenty  years.  His  vast  scope  of  experiences 
and  equally  wide  acquaintanceship  with  the  big 
figures  of  our  time,  were  amazing,  and  it  was  equally 
amazing  that  one  of  such  a  rich  and  interesting  his 
tory  could  tell  his  stories  in  such  a  simple  way  that 
the  personal  element  was  never  obtrusive. 

When  he  left  Salonika  he  endeavored  to  obtain 
permission  from  the  British  staff  to  visit  Moudros, 
but,  failing  in  this,  he  booked  his  passage  on  a 
crowded  little  Greek  steamer,  where  the  only  ob 
tainable  accommodation  was  a  lounge  in  the  dining 
saloon.  We  gave  him  a  farewell  dinner,  at  which 
the  American  consul  and  his  family,  with  all  the 
other  Americans  then  in  Salonika,  were  present, 
and  after  the  dinner  we  rowed  out  to  his  ship  and 
saw  him  very  uncomfortably  installed  for  his  voyage. 

He  came  down  the  sea  ladder  and  waved  his 
hand  as  we  rowed  away.  That  was  the  last  I  saw 
of  Richard  Harding  Davis. 

JOHN  T.  McCuTCHEON. 


XXII 


CONTENTS 


With  Davis  in  Vera  Cruz,  Brussels,  and  Salonika 

John  T.  McCutcbeon 

PAGE 

THE  LOST  ROAD I 

THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS  PALMAS  ......  30 

EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO  EVIL  THINKS 6l 

THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 92 

THE  LONG  ARM 137 

THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 157 

THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE    ....  189 

THE  BOY  SCOUT 245 

"SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE" 271 

THE  DESERTER 308 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


"IT  IS  AN  ENCHANTED  ROAD,"  SAID  THE 
GIRL;  "OR  MAYBE  WE  ARE  ENCHANTED"  6 

HE  FOUND  IT  LIKE  BEING  PERPETUALLY  IN 
A  COMIC  OPERA 96 

"YOU  MUSTN'T  GET  HER  MIXED  UP  WITH 
ANYTHING  I  TOLD  YOU  ABOUT  HER 

BROTHER" 202 

JIMMIE  DROPPED  THE  VALISE  .  .  .  AND  SA 
LUTED  248 

WITH  HER  EYE  FOR  DETAIL  MARIE  OB 
SERVED  THAT  THE  YOUNG  OFFICER,  IN 
STEAD  OF  IMPARTING  INFORMATION,  RE 
CEIVED  IT 294 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

DURING  the  war  with  Spain,  Colton  Lee 
came  into  the  service  as  a  volunteer.  For  a 
young  man,  he  always  had  taken  life  almost 
too  seriously,  and  when,  after  the  campaign  in 
Cuba,  he  elected  to  make  soldiering  his  profes 
sion,  the  seriousness  with  which  he  attacked  his 
new  work  surprised  no  one.  Finding  they  had 
lost  him  forever,  his  former  intimates  were 
bored,  but  his  colonel  was  enthusiastic,  and  the 
men  of  his  troop  not  only  loved,  but  respected 
him. 

From  the  start  he  determined  in  his  new  life 
women  should  have  no  part — a  determination 
that  puzzled  no  one  so  much  as  the  women,  for 
to  Lee  no  woman,  old  or  young,  had  found 
cause  to  be  unfriendly.  But  he  had  read  that 
the  army  is  a  jealous  mistress  who  brooks  no 
rival,  that  "  red  lips  tarnish  the  scabbard  steel," 
that  "he  travels  the  fastest  who  travels  alone." 

So,  when  white  hands  beckoned  and  pretty 
eyes  signalled,  he  did  not  look.  For  five  years, 
until  just  before  he  sailed  for  his  three  years  of 
duty  in  the  Philippines,  he  succeeded  not  only 
in  not  looking,  but  in  building  up  for  himself 

I 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

such  a  fine  reputation  as  a  woman-hater  that 
all  women  were  crazy  about  him.  Had  he  not 
been  ordered  to  Agawamsett  that  fact  would  not 
have  affected  him.  But  at  the  Officers*  School 
he  had  indulged  in  hard  study  rather  than  in 
hard  riding,  had  overworked,  had  brought  back 
his  Cuban  fever,  and  was  in  poor  shape  to  face 
the  tropics.  So,  for  two  months  before  the 
transport  was  to  sail,  they  ordered  him  to  Cape 
Cod  to  fill  his  lungs  with  the  bracing  air  of  a 
New  England  autumn. 

He  selected  Agawamsett,  because,  when  at 
Harvard,  it  was  there  he  had  spent  his  summer 
vacations,  and  he  knew  he  would  find  sailboats 
and  tennis  and,  through  the  pine  woods  back 
of  the  little  whaling  village,  many  miles  of  un- 
travelled  roads.  He  promised  himself  that  over 
these  he  would  gallop  an  imaginary  troop  in 
route  marches,  would  manoeuvre  it  against  pos 
sible  ambush,  and,  in  combat  patrols,  ground 
scouts,  and  cossack  outposts,  charge  with  rt  "as 
foragers."  But  he  did  none  of  these  things. 
For  at  Agawamsett  he  met  Frances  Gardner, 
and  his  experience  with  her  was  so  disastrous 
that,  in  his  determination  to  avoid  all  women, 
he  was  convinced  he  was  right. 

When  later  he  reached  Manila  he  vowed  no 
other  woman  would  ever  again  find  a  place  in 
his  thoughts.  No  other  woman  did.  Not  be- 

2 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

cause  he  had  the  strength  to  keep  his  vow,  but 
because  he  so  continually  thought  of  Frances 
Gardner  that  no  other  woman  had  a  chance. 

Miss  Gardner  was  a  remarkable  girl.  Her 
charm  appealed  to  all  kinds  of  men,  and,  un 
fortunately  for  Lee,  several  kinds  of  men  ap 
pealed  to  her.  Her  fortune  and  her  relations 
were  bound  up  in  the  person  of  a  rich  aunt  with 
whom  she  lived,  and  who,  it  was  understood, 
some  day  would  leave  her  all  the  money  in  the 
world.  But,  in  spite  of  her  charm,  certainly  in 
spite  of  the  rich  aunt,  Lee,  true  to  his  deter 
mination,  might  not  have  noticed  the  girl  had 
not  she  ridden  so  extremely  well. 

It  was  to  the  captain  of  cavalry  she  first  ap 
pealed.  But  even  a  cavalry  captain,  whose 
duty  in  life  is  to  instruct  sixty  men  in  the  art 
of  taking  the  life  of  as  many  other  men  as  pos 
sible,  may  turn  his  head  in  the  direction  of  a 
good-looking  girl.  And  when  for  weeks  a  man 
rides  at  the  side  of  one  through  pine  forests  as 
dim  and  mysterious  as  the  aisles  of  a  great 
cathedral,  when  he  guides  her  across  the  wet 
marshes  when  the  sun  is  setting  crimson  in  the 
pools  and  the  wind  blows  salt  from  the  sea, 
when  he  loses  them  both  by  moonlight  in  wood- 
roads  where  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  sink  silently 
into  dusty  pine  needles,  he  thinks  more  fre 
quently  of  the  girl  at  his  side  than  of  the  farth- 

3 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

ful  troopers  waiting  for  him  in  San  Francisco. 
The  girl  at  his  side  thought  frequently  of  him. 

With  the  "surface  indications"  of  a  young 
man  about  to  ask  her  to  marry  him  she  was 
painfully  familiar;  but  this  time  the  possibility 
was  the  reverse  of  painful.  What  she  meant  to 
do  about  it  she  did  not  know,  but  she  did  know 
that  she  was  strangely  happy.  Between  living 
on  as  the  dependent  of  a  somewhat  exacting 
relative  and  becoming  the  full  partner  of  this 
young  stranger,  who  with  men  had  proved  him 
self  so  masterful,  and  who  with  her  was  so 
gentle,  there  seemed  but  little  choice.  But  she 
did  not  as  yet  wish  to  make  the  choice.  She 
preferred  to  believe  she  was  not  certain.  She 
assured  him  that  before  his  leave  of  absence 
was  over  she  would  tell  him  whether  she  would 
remain  on  duty  with  the  querulous  aunt,  who 
had  befriended  her,  or  as  his  wife  accompany 
him  to  the  Philippines. 

It  was  not  the  answer  he  wanted;  but  in  her 
happiness,  which  was  evident  to  every  one,  he 
could  not  help  but  take  hope.  And  in  the 
questions  she  put  to  him  of  life  in  the  tropics, 
of  the  life  of  the  "officers'  ladies,"  he  saw  that 
what  was  in  her  mind  was  a  possible  life  with 
him,  and  he  was  content. 

She  became  to  him  a  wonderful,  glorious  per 
son,  and  each  day  she  grew  in  loveliness.  It 

4 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

had  been  five  years  of  soldiering  in  Cuba,  China, 
and  on  the  Mexican  border  since  he  had  talked 
to  a  woman  with  interest,  and  now  in  all  she 
said,  in  all  her  thoughts  and  words  and  delights, 
he  found  fresher  and  stronger  reasons  for  dis 
carding  his  determination  to  remain  wedded 
only  to  the  United  States  Army.  He  did  not 
need  reasons.  He  was  far  too  much  in  love  to 
see  in  any  word  or  act  of  hers  anything  that  was 
not  fine  and  beautiful. 

In  their  rides  they  had  one  day  stumbled  upon 
a  long-lost  and  long-forgotten  road  through  the 
woods,  which  she  had  claimed  as  their  own  by 
right  of  discovery,  and,  no  matter  to  what  point 
they  set  forth  each  day,  they  always  returned 
by  it.  Their  way  through  the  woods  stretched 
for  miles.  It  was  concealed  in  a  forest  of 
stunted  oaks  and  black  pines,  with  no  sign  of 
human  habitation,  save  here  and  there  a  clear 
ing  now  long  neglected  and  alive  only  with 
goldenrod.  Trunks  of  trees,  moss-grown  and 
crumbling  beneath  the  touch  of  the  ponies' 
hoofs,  lay  in  their  path,  and  above  it  the  branches 
of  a  younger  generation  had  clasped  hands.  At 
their  approach  squirrels  raced  for  shelter,  wood 
cock  and  partridge  shot  deeper  into  the  net 
work  of  vines  and  saplings,  and  the  click  of  the 
steel  as  the  ponies  tossed  their  bits,  and  their 
own  whispers,  alone  disturbed  the  silence. 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

"It  is  an  enchanted  road,"  said  the  girl;  "or 
maybe  we  are  enchanted." 

"Not  I,"  cried  the  young  man  loyally.  "I 
was  never  so  sane,  never  so  sure,  never  so  happy 
in  knowing  just  what  I  wanted !  If  only  you 
could  be  as  sure !" 

One  day  she  came  to  him  in  high  excitement 
with  a  book  of  verse.  "He  has  written  a 
poem,"  she  cried,  "about  our  own  woods,  about 
our  lost  road!  Listen!"  she  commanded,  and 
she  read  to  him: 

"'They  shut  the  road  through  the  woods 

Seventy  years  ago. 
Weather  and  rain  have  undone  ft  again, 

And  now  you  would  never  know 
There  was  once  a  road  through  the  woods 

Before  they  planted  the  trees. 
It  is  underneath  the  coppice  and  heath, 

And  the  thin  anemones. 

Only  the  keeper  sees 
That,  where  the  ringdove  broods, 

And  the  badgers  roll  at  ease, 

There  was  once  a  road  through  the  woods. 

*"  Yet,  if  you  enter  the  woods 

Of  a  summer  evening  late, 
When  the  night  air  cools  on  the  trout-ringed  pools 

Where  the  otter  whistles  his  mate 
(They  fear  not  men  in  the  woods 

Because  they  see  so  few), 
You  will  hear  the  beat  of  a  horse's  feet, 

And  the  swish  of  a  skirt  in  the  dew, 

Steadily  cantering  through 

6 


It  is  an  enchanted  road,"  said  the  girl;  "or  maybe  we 
are  enchanted." 


THE   LOST  ROAD 

The  misty  solitudes, 

As  though  they  perfectly  knew 
The  old  lost  road  through  the  woods.  .  .  . 
But  there  is  no  road  through  the  woods.' " 

"I  don't  like  that  at  a//,"  cried  the  soldier- 
man.  "It's  too — too  sad — it  doesn't  give  you 
any  encouragement.  The  way  it  ends,  I  mean: 
'But  there  is  no  road  through  the  woods.'  Of 
course  there's  a  road !  For  us  there  always  will 
be.  I'm  going  to  make  sure.  I'm  going  to  buy 
those  woods,  and  keep  the  lost  road  where  we 
can  always  find  it." 

"I  don't  think,"  said  the  girl,  "that  he  means 
a  real  road." 

"I  know  what  he  means,"  cried  the  lover, 
"and  he's  wrong!  There  is  a  road,  and  you 
and  I  have  found  it,  and  we  are  going  to  follow 
it  for  always." 

The  girl  shook  her  head,  but  her  eyes  were 
smiling  happily. 

The  "season"  at  Agawamsett  closed  with 
the  tennis  tournament,  and  it  was  generally 
conceded  fit  and  proper,  from  every  point  of 
view,  that  in  mixed  doubles  Lee  and  Miss 
Gardner  should  be  partners.  Young  Stedman, 
the  Boston  artist,  was  the  only  one  who  made 
objection.  Up  in  the  sail-loft  that  he  had 
turned  into  a  studio  he  was  painting  a  portrait 
of  the  lovely  Miss  Gardner,  and  he  protested 

7 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

that  the  three  days'  tournament  would  sadly 
interrupt  his  work.  And  Frances,  who  was 
very  much  interested  in  the  portrait,  was  in 
clined  to  agree. 

But  Lee  beat  down  her  objections.  He  was 
not  at  all  interested  in  the  portrait.  He  disap 
proved  of  it  entirely.  For  the  sittings  robbed 
him  of  Frances  during  the  better  part  of  each 
morning,  and  he  urged  that  when  he  must  so 
soon  leave  her,  between  the  man  who  wanted 
her  portrait  and  the  man  who  wanted  her,  it 
would  be  kind  to  give  her  time  to  the  latter. 

"But  I  had  no  idea,"  protested  Frances,  "he 
would  take  so  long.  He  told  me  he'd  finish  it 
in  three  sittings.  But  he's  so  critical  of  his 
own  work  that  he  goes  over  it  again  and  again. 
He  says  that  I  am  a  most  difficult  subject,  but 
that  I  inspire  him.  And  he  says,  if  I  will  only 
give  him  time,  he  believes  this  will  be  the  best 
thing  he  has  done." 

"That's  an  awful  thought,"  said  the  cavalry 
officer. 

"You  don't  like  him,"  reproved  Miss  Gard 
ner.  "He  is  always  very  polite  to  you." 

"He's  polite  to  everybody,"  said  Lee;  "that's 
why  I  don't  like  him.  He's  not  a  real  artist. 
He's  a  courtier.  God  gave  him  a  talent,  and  he 
makes  a  mean  use  of  it.  Uses  it  to  flatter 
people.  He's  like  these  long-haired  violinists 

8 


THE   LOST  ROAD 

who  play  anything  you  ask  them  to  in  the  lob 
ster  palaces.'* 

Miss  Gardner  looked  away  from  him.  Her 
color  was  high  and  her  eyes  very  bright. 

"I  think,"  she  said  steadily,  "that  Mr.  Sted- 
man  is  a  great  artist,  and  some  day  all  the  world 
will  think  so,  too  !" 

Lee  made  no  answer.  Not  because  he  dis 
agreed  with  her  estimate  of  Mr.  Stedman's 
genius — he  made  no  pretense  of  being  an  art 
critic — but  because  her  vehement  admiration 
had  filled  him  with  sudden  panic.  He  was  not 
jealous.  For  that  he  was  far  too  humble.  In 
deed,  he  thought  himself  so  utterly  unworthy  of 
Frances  Gardner  that  the  fact  that  to  him  she 
might  prefer  some  one  else  was  in  no  way  a 
surprise.  He  only  knew  that  if  she  should  pre 
fer  some  one  else  not  all  his  troop  horses  nor  all 
his  men  could  put  Humpty  Dumpty  back  again. 

But  if,  in  regard  to  Mr.  Stedman,  Miss  Gard 
ner  had  for  a  moment  been  at  odds  with  the 
man  who  loved  her,  she  made  up  for  it  the  day 
following  on  the  tennis  court.  There  she  was 
in  accord  with  him  in  heart,  soul,  and  body, 
and  her  sharp  "Well  played,  partner!"  thrilled 
him  like  one  of  his  own  bugle  calls.  For  two 
days  against  visiting  and  local  teams  they 
fought  their  way  through  the  tournament,  and 
the  struggle  with  her  at  his  side  filled  Lee  with 

9 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

a  great  happiness.  Not  that  the  championship 
of  Agawamsett  counted  greatly  to  one  exiled 
for  three  years  to  live  among  the  Moros.  He 
wanted  to  win  because  she  wanted  to  win.  But 
his  happiness  came  in  doing  something  in  com 
mon  with  her,  in  helping  her  and  in  having  her 
help  him,  in  being,  if  only  in  play,  if  only  for 
three  days,  her  "partner/* 

After  they  won  they  walked  home  together, 
each  swinging  a  fat,  heavy  loving-cup.  On  each 
was  engraved: 

"Mixed  doubles,  Agawamsett,  1910." 

Lee  held  his  up  so  that  the  setting  sun  flashed 
on  the  silver. 

"I  am  going  to  keep  that,"  he  said,  "as  long 
as  I  live.  It  means  you  were  once  my  *  part 
ner/  It's  a  sign  that  once  we  two  worked  to 
gether  for  something  and  won"  In  the  words 
the  man  showed  such  feeling  that  the  girl  said 
soberly: 

"Mine  means  that  to  me,  too.  I  will  never 
part  with  mine,  either." 

Lee  turned  to  her  and  smiled,  appealing  wist- 

fully. 

"It  seems  a  pity  to  separate  them,"  he  said. 
"They'd  look  well  together  over  an  open  fire 
place." 

The  girl  frowned  unhappily.  "  I  don't  know," 
she  protested.  "I  don't  know." 

10 


THE  LOST   ROAD 

The  next  day  Lee  received  from  the  War  De 
partment  a  telegram  directing  him  to  "proceed 
without  delay*'  to  San  Francisco,  and  there  to 
embark  for  the  Philippines. 

That  night  he  put  the  question  to  her  directly, 
but  again  she  shook  her  head  unhappily;  again 
she  said:  "I  don't  know!" 

So  he  sailed  without  her,  and  each  evening  at 
sunset,  as  the  great  transport  heaved  her  way 
across  the  swell  of  the  Pacific,  he  stood  at  the 
rail  and  looked  back.  With  the  aid  of  the 
first  officer  he  calculated  the  difference  in  time 
between  a  whaling  village  situated  at  forty-four 
degrees  north  and  an  army  transport  dropping 
rapidly  toward  the  equator,  and  so,  each  day, 
kept  in  step  with  the  girl  he  loved. 

"Now,"  he  would  tell  himself,  "she  is  in  her 
cart  in  front  of  the  post-office,  and  while  they 
sort  the  morning  mail  she  gossips  with  the 
fisher  folks,  the  summer  folks,  the  grooms,  and 
chauffeurs.  Now  she  is  sitting  for  her  portrait 
to  Stedman"  (he  did  not  dwell  long  on  that 
part  of  her  day),  "and  now  she  is  at  tennis,  or, 
as  she  promised,  riding  alone  at  sunset  down 
our  lost  road  through  the  woods." 

But  that  part  of  her  day  from  which  Lee  hur 
ried  was  that  part  over  which  the  girl  herself 
lingered.  As  he  turned  his  eyes  from  his  can 
vas  to  meet  hers,  Stedman,  the  charming,  the 

ii 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

deferential,  the  adroit,  who  never  allowed  his 
painting  to  interrupt  his  talk,  told  her  of  what 
he  was  pleased  to  call  his  dreams  and  ambitions, 
of  the  great  and  beautiful  ladies  who  had  sat 
before  his  easel,  and  of  the  only  one  of  them 
who  had  given  him  inspiration.  Especially  of 
the  only  one  who  had  given  him  inspiration. 
With  her  always  to  uplift  him,  he  could  become 
one  of  the  world's  most  famous  artists,  and  she 
would  go  down  into  history  as  the  beautiful 
woman  who  had  helped  him,  as  the  wife  of 
Rembrandt  had  inspired  Rembrandt,  as  "Mona 
Lisa"  had  made  Leonardo. 

Gilbert  wrote:  "It  is  not  the  lover  who  comes 
to  woo,  but  the  lover's  way  of  wooing!"  His 
successful  lover  was  the  one  who  threw  the  girl 
across  his  saddle  and  rode  away  with  her.  But 
one  kind  of  woman  does  not  like  to  have  her 
lover  approach  shouting:  "At  the  gallop! 
Charge!" 

She  prefers  a  man  not  because  he  is  master 
ful,  but  because  he  is  not.  She  likes  to  believe 
the  man  needs  her  more  than  she  needs  him, 
that  she,  and  only  she,  can  steady  him,  cheer 
him,  keep  him  true  to  the  work  he  is  in  the  world 
to  perform.  It  is  called  the  "mothering"  in 
stinct. 

Frances  felt  this  mothering  instinct  toward 
the  sensitive,  imaginative,  charming  Stedman. 

12 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

She  believed  he  had  but  two  thoughts,  his  art 
and  herself.  She  was  content  to  place  his  art 
first.  She  could  not  guess  that  to  one  so  un 
worldly,  to  one  so  wrapped  up  in  his  art,  the 
fortune  of  a  rich  aunt  might  prove  alluring. 

When  the  transport  finally  picked  up  the 
landfalls  of  Cavite  Harbor,  Lee,  with  the  in 
stinct  of  a  soldier,  did  not  exclaim:  "This  is 
where  Dewey  ran  the  forts  and  sank  the  Span 
ish  fleet!"  On  the  contrary,  he  was  saying: 
"When  she  comes  to  join  me,  it  will  be  here  I 
will  first  see  her  steamer.  I  will  be  waiting  with 
a  field-glass  on  the  end  of  that  wharf.  No,  I 
will  be  out  here  in  a  shore-boat  waving  my  hat. 
And  of  all  those  along  the  rail,  my  heart  will 
tell  me  which  is  she !" 

Then  a  barefooted  Filipino  boy  handed  him 
an  unsigned  cablegram.  It  read:  "If  I  wrote 
a  thousand  words  I  could  not  make  it  easier  for 
either  of  us.  I  am  to  marry  Arthur  Stedman  in 
December." 

Lee  was  grateful  for  the  fact  that  he  was  not 
permitted  to  linger  in  Manila.  Instead,  he  was 
at  once  ordered  up-country,  where  at  a  one- 
troop  post  he  administered  the  affairs  of  a 
somewhat  hectic  province,  and  under  the  guid 
ance  of  the  local  constabulary  chased  will-o'- 
the-wisp  brigands.  On  a  shelf  in  his  quarters 
he  placed  the  silver  loving-cup,  and  at  night, 


THE   LOST  ROAD 

when  the  village  slept,  he  would  sit  facing  it, 
filling  one  pipe  after  another,  and  through  the 
smoke  staring  at  the  evidence  to  the  fact  that 
once  Frances  Gardner  and  he  had  been  partners. 
In  these  post-mortems  he  saw  nothing  mor 
bid.  With  his  present  activities  they  in  no  way 
interfered,  and  in  thinking  of  the  days  when 
they  had  been  together,  in  thinking  of  what  he 
had  lost,  he  found  deep  content.  Another  man, 
having  lost  the  woman  he  loved,  would  have 
tried  to  forget  her  and  all  she  meant  to  him. 
But  Lee  was  far  too  honest  with  himself  to  sub 
stitute  other  thoughts  for  those  that  were  glori 
ous,  that  still  thrilled  him.  The  girl  could  take 
herself  from  him,  but  she  could  not  take  his  love 
for  her  from  him.  And  for  that  he  was  grate 
ful.  He  never  had  considered  himself  worthy, 
and  so  could  not  believe  he  had  been  ill  used. 
In  his  thoughts  of  her  there  was  no  bitterness: 
for  that  also  he  was  grateful.  And,  as  he  knew 
he  would  not  care  for  any  other  woman  in  the 
way  he  cared  for  her,  he  preferred  to  care  in 
that  way,  even  for  one  who  was  lost,  than  in  a 
lesser  way  for  a  possible  she  who  some  day 
might  greatly  care  for  him.  So  she  still  re 
mained  in  his  thoughts,  and  was  so  constantly 
with  him  that  he  led  a  dual  existence,  in  which 
by  day  he  directed  the  affairs  of  an  alien  and 
hostile  people  and  by  night  again  lived  through 

14 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

the  wonderful  moments  when  she  had  thought 
she  loved  him,  when  he  first  had  learned  to 
love  her.  At  times  she  seemed  actually  at  his 
side,  and  he  could  not  tell  whether  he  was  pre 
tending  that  this  were  so  or  whether  the  force 
of  his  love  had  projected  her  image  half  around 
the  world. 

Often,  when  in  single  file  he  led  the  men 
through  the  forest,  he  seemed  again  to  be  back 
on  Cape  Cod  picking  his  way  over  their  own 
lost  road  through  the  wood,  and  he  heard  "the 
beat  of  a  horse's  feet  and  the  swish  of  a  skirt 
in  the  dew."  And  then  a  carbine  would  rattle, 
or  a  horse  would  stumble  and  a  trooper  swear, 
and  he  was  again  in  the  sweating  jungle,  where 
men,  intent  upon  his  life,  crouched  in  ambush. 

She  spared  him  the  mockery  of  wedding- 
cards;  but  the  announcement  of  the  wedding 
came  to  him  in  a  three-months-old  newspaper. 
Hoping  they  would  speak  of  her  in  their  letters, 
he  kept  up  a  somewhat  one-sided  correspondence 
with  friends  of  Mrs.  Stedman's  in  Boston,  where 
she  now  lived.  But  for  a  year  in  none  of  their 
letters  did  her  name  appear.  When  a  mutual 
friend  did  write  of  her  Lee  understood  the 
silence. 

From  the  first,  the  mutual  friend  wrote,  the 
life  of  Mrs.  Stedman  and  her  husband  was  thor 
oughly  miserable.  Stedman  blamed  her  be- 

15 


THE   LOST  ROAD 

cause  she  came  to  him  penniless.  The  rich 
aunt,  who  had  heartily  disapproved  of  the  art 
ist,  had  spoken  of  him  so  frankly  that  Frances 
had  quarrelled  with  her,  and  from  her  no  longer 
would  accept  money.  In  his  anger  at  this 
Stedman  showed  himself  to  Frances  as  he  was. 
And  only  two  months  after  their  marriage  she 
was  further  enlightened. 

An  irate  husband  made  him  the  central  fig 
ure  in  a  scandal  that  filled  the  friends  of  Frances 
with  disgust,  and  that  for  her  was  an  awaken 
ing  cruel  and  humiliating.  Men  no  longer  per 
mitted  their  womenfolk  to  sit  to  Stedman  for 
a  portrait,  and  the  need  of  money  grew  imper 
ative.  He  the  more  blamed  Frances  for  having 
quarrelled  with  her  aunt,  told  her  it  was  for  her 
money  he  had  married  her,  that  she  had  ruined 
his  career,  and  that  she  was  to  blame  for  his 
ostracism — a  condition  that  his  own  misconduct 
had  brought  upon  him.  Finally,  after  twelve 
months  of  this,  one  morning  he  left  a  note  say 
ing  he  no  longer  would  allow  her  to  be  a  drag 
upon  him,  and  sailed  for  Europe. 

They  learned  that,  in  Paris,  he  had  returned 
to  that  life  which  before  his  marriage,  even  in 
that  easy-going  city,  had  made  him  notorious. 
"And  Frances,"  continued  Lee's  correspondent, 
"has  left  Boston,  and  now  lives  in  New  York. 
She  wouldn't  let  any  of  us  help  her,  nor  even 

16 


THE   LOST  ROAD 

know  where  she  is.  The  last  we  heard  of  her 
she  was  in  charge  of  the  complaint  department 
of  a  millinery  shop,  for  which  work  she  was 
receiving  about  the  same  wages  I  give  my 
cook." 

Lee  did  not  stop  to  wonder  why  the  same 
woman,  who  to  one  man  was  a  "drag,"  was  to 
another,  even  though  separated  from  her  by 
half  the  world,  a  joy  and  a  blessing.  Instead, 
he  promptly  wrote  his  lawyers  to  find  Mrs. 
Stedman,  and,  in  such  a  way  as  to  keep  her 
ignorant  of  their  good  offices,  see  that  she  ob 
tained  a  position  more  congenial  than  her  pres 
ent  one,  and  one  that  would  pay  her  as  much 
as,  without  arousing  her  suspicions,  they  found 
it  possible  to  give. 

Three  months  had  passed,  and  this  letter  had 
not  been  answered,  when  in  Manila,  where  he 
had  been  ordered  to  make  a  report,  he  heard  of 
her  again.  One  evening,  when  the  band  played 
on  the  Luneta,  he  met  a  newly  married  couple 
who  had  known  him  in  Agawamsett.  They 
now  were  on  a  ninety-day  cruise  around  the 
world.  Close  friends  of  Frances  Gardner,  they 
remembered  him  as  one  of  her  many  devotees 
and  at  once  spoke  of  her. 

"That  blackguard  she  married,"  the  bride 
groom  told  him,  "was  killed  three  months  ago 
racing  with  another  car  from  Versailles  back  to 

17 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

Paris  after  a  dinner  at  which,  it  seems,  all 
present  drank  *  burgundy  out  of  the  finger- 
bowls.'  Coming  down  that  steep  hill  into 
Saint  Cloud,  the  cars  collided,  and  Stedman 
and  a  woman,  whose  husband  thought  she  was 
somewhere  else,  were  killed.  He  couldn't  even 
die  without  making  a  scandal  of  it." 

"But  the  worst,"  added  the  bride,  "is  that, 
in  spite  of  the  way  the  little  beast  treated  her, 
I  believe  Frances  still  cares  for  him,  and  always 
will.  That's  the  worst  of  it,  isn't  it?"  she  de 
manded. 

In  words,  Lee  did  not  answer,  but  in  his  heart 
he  agreed  that  was  much  the  worst  of  it.  The 
fact  that  Frances  was  free  filled  him  with  hope; 
but  that  she  still  cared  for  the  man  she  had 
married,  and  would  continue  to  think  only  of 
him,  made  him  ill  with  despair. 

He  cabled  his  lawyers  for  her  address.  He 
determined  that,  at  once,  on  learning  it,  he 
would  tell  her  that  with  him  nothing  was 
changed.  He  had  forgotten  nothing,  and  had 
learned  much.  He  had  learned  that  his  love 
for  her  was  a  splendid  and  inspiring  passion, 
that  even  without  her  it  had  lifted  him  up, 
helped  and  cheered  him,  made  the  whole  world 
kind  and  beautiful.  With  her  he  could  not 
picture  a  world  so  complete  with  happiness. 

Since  entering  the  army  he  had  never  taken 

18 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

a  leave  of  absence,  and  he  was  sure,  if  now  he 
asked  for  one,  it  would  not  be  refused.  He  de 
termined,  if  the  answer  to  his  cable  gave  him 
her  address,  he  would  return  at  once,  and  again 
offer  her  his  love,  which  he  now  knew  was 
deeper,  finer,  and  infinitely  more  tender  than 
the  love  he  first  had  felt  for  her.  But  the  cable 
balked  him.  "Address  unknown,"  it  read;  "be 
lieved  to  have  gone  abroad  in  capacity  of  gov 
erness.  Have  employed  foreign  agents.  Will 
cable  their  report." 

Whether  to  wait  for  and  be  guided  by  the 
report  of  the  detectives,  or  to  proceed  to  Eu 
rope  and  search  for  her  himself,  Lee  did  not 
know.  He  finally  determined  that  to  seek  for 
her  with  no  clew  to  her  whereabouts  would  be 
but  a  waste  of  precious  moments,  while,  if  in 
their  search  the  agents  were  successful,  he  would 
be  able  to  go  directly  to  her.  Meanwhile,  by 
cable,  he  asked  for  protracted  leave  of  absence 
and,  while  waiting  for  his  answer,  returned  to 
his  post.  There,  within  a  week,  he  received  his 
leave  of  absence,  but  in  a  fashion  that  threat 
ened  to  remove  him  forever  from  the  army. 

The  constabulary  had  located  the  will-o'-the- 
wisp  brigands  behind  a  stockade  built  about  an 
extinct  volcano,  and  Lee  and  his  troop  and  a 
mountain  battery  attempted  to  dislodge  them. 
In  the  fight  that  followed  Lee  covered  his  brows 

19 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

with  laurel  wreaths  and  received  two  bullet 
wounds  in  his  body. 

For  a  month  death  stood  at  the  side  of  his 
cot;  and  then,  still  weak  and  at  times  delirious 
with  fever,  by  slow  stages  he  was  removed  to 
the  hospital  in  Manila.  In  one  of  his  sane 
moments  a  cable  was  shown  him.  It  read: 
"Whereabouts  still  unknown."  Lee  at  once 
rebelled  against  his  doctors.  He  must  rise,  he 
declared,  and  proceed  to  Europe.  It  was  upon 
a  matter  of  life  and  death.  The  surgeons  as 
sured  him  his  remaining  exactly  where  he  was 
also  was  a  matter  of  as  great  consequence. 
Lee's  knowledge  of  his  own  lack  of  strength 
told  him  they  were  right. 

Then,  from  headquarters,  he  was  informed 
that,  as  a  reward  for  his  services  and  in  recog 
nition  of  his  approaching  convalescence,  he 
was  ordered  to  return  to  his  own  climate  and 
that  an  easy  billet  had  been  found  for  him  as  a 
recruiting  officer  in  New  York  City.  Believing 
the  woman  he  loved  to  be  in  Europe,  this  plan 
for  his  comfort  only  succeeded  in  bringing  on  a 
relapse.  But  the  day  following  there  came 
another  cablegram.  It  put  an  abrupt  end  to  his 
mutiny,  and  brought  him  and  the  War  Depart 
ment  into  complete  accord. 

"She  is  in  New  York,"  it  read,  "acting  as 
agent  for  a  charitable  institution,  which  one 

20 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

not  known,  but  hope  in  a  few  days  to  cable 
correct  address." 

In  all  the  world  there  was  no  man  so  happy. 
The  next  morning  a  transport  was  sailing,  and, 
probably  because  they  had  read  the  cablegram, 
the  surgeons  agreed  with  Lee  that  a  sea  voyage 
would  do  him  no  harm.  He  was  carried  on 
board,  and  when  the  propellers  first  churned 
the  water  and  he  knew  he  was  moving  toward 
her,  the  hero  of  the  fight  around  the  crater 
shed  unmanly  tears.  He  would  see  her  again, 
hear  her  voice;  the  same  great  city  would  shelter 
them.  It  was  worth  a  dozen  bullets. 

He  reached  New  York  in  a  snow-storm,  a 
week  before  Christmas,  and  went  straight  to 
the  office  of  his  lawyers.  They  received  him 
with  embarrassment.  Six  weeks  before,  on  the 
very  day  they  had  cabled  him  that  Mrs.  Sted- 
man  was  in  New  York,  she  had  left  the  charita 
ble  institution  where  she  had  been  employed, 
and  had  again  disappeared. 

Lee  sent  his  trunks  to  the  Army  and  Navy 
Club,  which  was  immediately  around  the  cor 
ner  from  the  recruiting  office  in  Sixth  Avenue, 
and  began  discharging  telegrams  at  every  one 
who  had  ever  known  Frances  Gardner.  The 
net  result  was  discouraging.  In  the  year  and 
a  half  in  which  he  had  been  absent  every 
friend  of  the  girl  he  sought  had  temporarily 

21 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

changed  his  place  of  residence  or  was  perma 
nently  dead. 

Meanwhile  his  arrival  by  the  transport  was 
announced  in  the  afternoon  papers.  At  the 
wharf  an  admiring  trooper  had  told  a  fine  tale 
of  his  conduct  at  the  battle  of  the  crater,  and 
reporters  called  at  the  club  to  see  him.  He  did 
not  discourage  them,  as  he  hoped  through  them 
the  fact  of  his  return  might  be  made  known  to 
Frances.  She  might  send  him  a  line  of  wel 
come,  and  he  would  discover  her  whereabouts. 
But,  though  many  others  sent  him  hearty  greet 
ings,  from  her  there  was  no  word. 

On  the  second  day  after  his  arrival  one  of  the 
telegrams  was  answered  in  person  by  a  friend  of 
Mrs.  Stedman.  He  knew  only  that  she  had 
been  in  New  York,  that  she  was  very  poor  and 
in  ill  health,  that  she  shunned  all  of  her  friends, 
and  was  earning  her  living  as  the  matron  of 
some  sort  of  a  club  for  working  girls.  He  did 
not  know  the  name  of  it. 

On  the  third  day  there  still  was  no  news.  On 
the  fourth  Lee  decided  that  the  next  morn 
ing  he  would  advertise.  He  would  say  only: 
"Will  Mrs.  Arthur  Stedman  communicate  with 
Messrs.  Fuller  &  Fuller?"  Fuller  &  Fuller  were 
his  lawyers.  That  afternoon  he  remained  until 
six  o'clock  at  the  recruiting  office,  and  when  he 
left  it  the  electric  street  lights  were  burning 

22 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

brightly.  A  heavy  damp  snow  was  falling,  and 
the  lights  and  the  falling  flakes  and  the  shouts 
of  drivers  and  the  toots  of  taxicabs  made  for  the 
man  from  the  tropics  a  welcome  homecoming. 

Instead  of  returning  at  once  to  his  club,  he 
slackened  his  steps.  The  shop  windows  of 
Sixth  Avenue  hung  with  Christmas  garlands, 
and  colored  lamps  glowed  like  open  fireplaces. 
Lee  passed  slowly  before  them,  glad  that  he 
had  been  able  to  get  back  at  such  a  season. 
For  the  moment  he  had  forgotten  the  woman 
he  sought,  and  was  conscious  only  of  his  sur 
roundings.  He  had  paused  in  front  of  the 
window  of  a  pawn-shop.  Over  the  array  of 
cheap  jewelry,  of  banjos,  shot-guns,  and  razors, 
his  eyes  moved  idly.  And  then  they  became 
transfixed  and  staring.  In  the  very  front  of 
the  window,  directly  under  his  nose,  was  a 
tarnished  silver  loving-cup.  On  it  was  en 
graved,  "Mixed  Doubles.  Agawamsett,  1910." 
In  all  the  world  there  were  only  two  such  cups, 
and  as  though  he  were  dodging  the  slash  of  a 
bolo,  Lee  leaped  into  the  shop.  Many  precious 
seconds  were  wasted  in  persuading  Mrs.  Cohen 
that  he  did  not  believe  the  cup  had  been  stolen; 
that  he  was  not  from  the  Central  Office;  that  he 
believed  the  lady  who  had  pawned  the  cup  had 
come  by  it  honestly;  that  he  meant  no  harm  to 
the  lady;  that  he  meant  no  harm  to  Mrs. 

23 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

Cohen;  that,  much  as  the  young  lady  may  have 
needed  the  money  Mrs.  Cohen  had  loaned  her 
on  the  cup,  he  needed  the  address  of  the  young 
lady  still  more. 

Mrs.  Cohen  retired  behind  a  screen,  and  Lee 
was  conscious  that  from  the  other  side  of  it 
the  whole  family  of  Cohens  were  taking  his 
measurements.  He  approved  of  their  efforts  to 
protect  the  owner  of  the  cup,  but  not  from  him. 

He  offered,  if  one  of  the  younger  Cohens 
would  take  him  to  the  young  lady,  to  let  him 
first  ask  her  if  she  would  receive  Captain  Lee, 
and  for  his  service  he  would  give  the  young 
Cohen  untold  gold.  He  exhibited  the  untold 
gold.  The  young  Cohen  choked  at  the  sight 
and  sprang  into  the  seat  beside  the  driver  of  a 
taxicab. 

"To  the  Working  Girls'  Home,  on  Tenth 
Street!"  he  commanded. 

Through  the  falling  snow  and  the  flashing 
lights  they  slid,  skidded,  and  leaped.  Inside 
the  cab  Lee  shivered  with  excitement,  with 
cold,  with  fear  that  it  might  not  be  true.  He 
could  not  realize  she  was  near.  It  was  easier 
to  imagine  himself  still  in  the  jungle,  with 
months  of  time  and  sixteen  thousand  miles  of 
land  and  water  separating  them;  or  in  the  hos 
pital,  on  a  white-enamel  cot,  watching  the 
shadow  creep  across  the  whitewashed  wall;  or 

24 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

lying  beneath  an  awning  that  did  not  move, 
staring  at  a  burning,  brazen  sea  that  did  not 
move,  on  a  transport  that,  timed  by  the  beat 
ing  of  his  heart,  stood  still. 

Those  days  were  within  the  radius  of  his 
experience.  Separation,  absence,  the  immuta 
ble  giants  of  time  and  space,  he  knew.  With 
them  he  had  fought  and  could  withstand  them. 
But  to  be  near  her,  to  hear  her  voice,  to  bring 
his  love  into  her  actual  presence,  that  was  an 
attack  upon  his  feelings  which  found  him  with 
out  weapons.  That  for  a  very  few  dollars  she 
had  traded  the  cup  from  which  she  had  sworn 
never  to  part  did  not  concern  him.  Having 
parted  from  him,  what  she  did  with  a  silver 
mug  was  of  little  consequence.  It  was  of  sig 
nificance  only  in  that  it  meant  she  was  poor. 
And  that  she  was  either  an  inmate  or  a  matron 
of  a  lodging-house  for  working  girls  also  showed 
she  was  poor. 

He  had  been  told  that  was  her  condition,  and 
that  she  was  in  ill  health,  and  that  from  all  who 
loved  her  she  had  refused  to  accept  help.  At 
'the  thought  his  jaws  locked  pugnaciously. 
There  was  one  who  loved  her,  who,  should  she 
refuse  his  aid,  was  prepared  to  make  her  life 
intolerable.  He  planned  in  succession  at  light 
ning  speed  all  he  might  do  for  her.  Among 
other  things  he  would  make  this  Christmas  the 

25 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

happiest  she  or  he  would  ever  know.  Not  for 
an  instant  did  he  question  that  she  who  had 
refused  help  from  all  who  loved  her  could  refuse 
anything  he  offered.  For  he  knew  it  was 
offered  with  a  love  that  demanded  nothing  in 
return,  with  a  love  that  asked  only  to  be  al 
lowed  to  love,  and  to  serve.  To  refuse  help 
inspired  by  such  a  feeling  as  his  would  be  mor 
bid,  wicked,  ridiculous,  as  though  a  flower  re 
fused  to  turn  its  face  to  the  sun,  and  shut  its 
lips  to  the  dew. 

The  cab  stopped  in  front  of  a  brick  building 
adorned  with  many  fire-escapes.  Afterward  he 
remembered  a  bare,  brilliantly  lit  hall  hung 
with  photographs  of  the  Acropolis,  and  a  stout, 
capable  woman  in  a  cap,  who  looked  him  over 
and  said: 

"You  will  find  Mrs.  Stedman  in  the  writing- 
room." 

And  he  remembered  entering  a  room  filled 
with  Mission  furniture  and  reading-lamps  under 
green  shades.  It  was  empty,  except  for  a  young 
girl  in  deep  black,  who  was  seated  facing  him, 
her  head  bent  above  a  writing-desk.  As  he 
came  into  the  circle  of  the  lamps  the  girl  raised 
her  eyes  and  as  though  lifted  to  her  feet  by 
what  she  saw,  and  through  no  effort  of  her 
own,  stood  erect. 

And  the  young  man  who  had  persuaded  him- 

26 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

self  his  love  demanded  nothing,  who  asked  only 
to  worship  at  her  gate,  found  his  arms  reaching 
out,  and  heard  his  voice  as  though  it  came  from 
a  great  distance,  cry,  "Frances!" 

And  the  girl  who  had  refused  the  help  of  all 
who  loved  her,  like  a  homing  pigeon  walked 
straight  into  the  outstretched  arms. 

After  five  minutes,  when  he  was  almost  able 
to  believe  it  was  true,  he  said  in  his  command 
ing,  masterful  way:  "And  now  I'm  going  to 
take  you  out  of  here.  Fm  going  to  buy  you  a 
ring,  and  a  sable  coat,  and  a  house  to  live  in, 
and  a  dinner.  Which  shall  we  buy  first?" 

"First,"  said  Frances,  frowning  happily,  "I 
am  afraid  we  must  go  to  the  Ritz,  to  tell  Aunt 
Emily.  She  always  loved  you,  and  it  will 
make  her  so  happy." 

"To  the  Ritz!"  stammered  the  young  man. 
"To  Aunt  Emily!  I  thought  they  told  me 
your  aunt  and — you " 

"We  quarrelled,  yes,"  said  Frances,  "and  she 
has  forgiven  me;  but  she  has  not  forgiven  her 
self,  so  she  spoils  me,  and  already  I  have  a  house 
to  live  in,  and  several  sable  coats,  and,  oh! 
everything,  everything  but  the  ring." 

"I  am  so  sorry !"  cried  Lee.  "I  thought  you 
were  poor.  I  hoped  you  were  poor.  But  you 
are  joking!"  he  exclaimed  delightedly.  "You 

are  here  in  a  working  girls'  home " 

27 


THE   LOST  ROAD 

"It  is  one  of  Aunt  Emily's  charities.  She 
built  it,"  said  Frances.  "I  come  here  to  talk 
to  the  girls." 

"But,"  persisted  Lee  triumphantly,  "if  you 
are  not  poor,  why  did  you  pawn  our  silver  loving- 
cup?" 

The  face  of  the  girl  became  a  lovely  crimson, 
and  tears  rose  to  her  eyes.  As  though  at  a 
confessional,  she  lifted  her  hands  penitently. 

"Try  to  understand,"  she  begged;  "I  wanted 
you  to  love  me,  not  for  my  money " 

"But  you  knew!"  cried  Lee. 

"I  had  to  be  sure,"  begged  the  girl;  "and  I 
wanted  to  believe  you  loved  me  even  if  I  did 
not  love  you.  When  it  was  too  late  I  knew 
you  loved  me  as  no  woman  ever  deserved  to 
be  loved;  and  I  wanted  that  love.  I  could  not 
live  without  it.  So  when  I  read  in  the  papers 
you  had  returned  I  wouldn't  let  myself  write 
you;  I  wouldn't  let  myself  beg  you  to  come  to 
see  me.  I  set  a  test  for  you.  I  knew  from  the 
papers  you  were  at  the  Army  and  Navy  Club, 
and  that  around  the  corner  was  the  recruiting 
office.  I'd  often  seen  the  sergeant  there,  in 
uniform,  at  the  door.  I  knew  you  must  pass 
from  your  club  to  the  office  many  times  each 
day,  so  I  thought  of  the  loving-cup  and  the 
pawn-shop.  I  planted  it  there.  It  was  a  trick, 
a  test.  I  thought  if  you  saw  it  in  a  pawn-shop 

28 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

you  would  believe  I  no  longer  cared  for  you, 
and  that  I  was  very  poor.  If  you  passed  it  by, 
then  I  would  know  you  yourself  had  stopped 
caring,  but  if  you  asked  about  it,  if  you  inquired 
for  me,  then  I  would  know  you  came  to  me  of 
your  own  wish,  because  you " 

Lee  shook  his  head. 

"You  don't  have  to  tell  me"  he  said  gently, 
"why  I  came.  I've  a  cab  outside.  You  will 
get  in  it,"  he  commanded,  "and  we  will  rescue 
our  cup.  I  always  told  you  they  would  look 
well  together  over  an  open  fireplace." 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS  PALMAS 

THIS  is  the  story  of  a  gallant  officer  who  loved 
his  profession,  his  regiment,  his  country,  but 
above  all,  whiskey;  of  his  miraculous  conver 
sion  to  total  abstinence,  and  of  the  humble  in 
strument  that  worked  the  miracle.  At  the  time 
it  was  worked,  a  battalion  of  the  Thirty-third 
Infantry  had  been  left  behind  to  guard  the 
Zone,  and  was  occupying  impromptu  barracks 
on  the  hill  above  Las  Palmas.  That  was  when 
Las  Palmas  was  one  of  the  four  thousand  sta 
tions  along  the  forty  miles  of  the  Panama  Rail 
road.  When  the  railroad  was  "reconstructed" 
the  name  of  Las  Palmas  did  not  appear  on  the 
new  time-table,  and  when  this  story  appears 
Las  Palmas  will  be.  eighty  feet  under  water. 
So  if  any  one  wishes  to  dispute  the  miracle  he 
will  have  to  conduct  his  investigation  in  a 
diving-bell. 

On  this  particular  evening  young  Major  Ain- 
tree,  in  command  of  the  battalion,  had  gone 
up  the  line  to  Panama  to  dine  at  the  Hotel 
Tivoli,  and  had  dined  well.  To  prevent  his 
doing  this  a  paternal  government  had  ordered 
that  at  the  Tivoli  no  alcoholic  liquors  may  be 

30 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS  PALMAS 

sold;  but  only  two  hundred  yards  from  the 
hotel,  outside  the  zone  of  temperance,  lies 
Panama  and  Angelina's,  and  during  the  dinner, 
between  the  Tivoli  and  Angelina's,  the  Jamaican 
waiter-boys  ran  relay  races. 

After  the  dinner,  the  Jamaican  waiter-boys 
proving  too  slow,  the  dinner-party  in  a  body 
adjourned  to  Angelina's,  and  when  later,  Major 
Aintree  moved  across  the  street  to  the  night 
train  to  Las  Palmas,  he  moved  unsteadily. 

Young  Standish  of  the  Canal  Zone  police, 
who,  though  but  twenty-six,  was  a  full  corporal, 
was  for  that  night  on  duty  as  "train  guard," 
and  was  waiting  at  the  rear  steps  of  the  last 
car.  As  Aintree  approached  the  steps  he  saw 
indistinctly  a  boyish  figure  in  khaki,  and,  mis 
taking  it  for  one  of  his  own  men,  he  clasped  the 
handrail  for  support,  and  halted  frowning. 

Observing  the  condition  of  the  officer  the 
policeman  also  frowned,  but  in  deference  to  the 
uniform,  slowly  and  with  reluctance  raised  his 
hand  to  his  sombrero.  The  reluctance  was 
more  apparent  than  the  salute.  It  was  less  of 
a  salute  than  an  impertinence. 

Partly  out  of  regard  for  his  rank,  partly  from 
temper,  chiefly  from  whiskey,  Aintree  saw 
scarlet. 

"When  you  s'lute  your  s'perior  officer,"  he 
shouted,  "you  s'lute  him  quick.  You  unner- 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS  PALMAS 

stan',  you  s'lute  him  quick!    S'lute  me  again," 
he  commanded,  "and  s'lute  me  damn  quick." 

Standish  remained  motionless.  As  is  the 
habit  of  policemen  over  all  the  world,  his  thumbs 
were  stuck  in  his  belt.  He  answered  without 
offense,  in  tones  matter-of-fact  and  calm. 

"You  are  not  my  superior  officer,"  he  said. 

It  was  the  calmness  that  irritated  Aintree. 
His  eyes  sought  for  the  infantryman's  cap  and 
found  a  sombrero. 

"You  damned  leatherneck,"  he  began,  "I'll 
report " 

"I'm  not  a  marine,  either,"  interrupted  Stand 
ish.  "I'm  a  policeman.  Move  on,"  he  or 
dered,  "you're  keeping  these  people  waiting." 

Others  of  the  dinner-party  formed  a  flying 
wedge  around  Aintree  and  crowded  him  up  the 
steps  and  into  a  seat  and  sat  upon  him.  Ten 
minutes  later,  when  Standish  made  his  rounds 
of  the  cars,  Aintree  saw  him  approaching.  He 
had  a  vague  recollection  that  he  had  been  in 
sulted,  and  by  a  policeman. 

"You!"  he  called,  and  so  loudly  that  all  in 
the  car  turned,  "I'm  going  to  report  you,  going 
to  report  you  for  insolence.  What's  your 
name?" 

Looking  neither  at  Aintree  nor  at  the  faces 
turned  toward  him,  Standish  replied  as  though 
Aintree  had  asked  him  what  time  it  was. 

32 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS  PALMAS 

"Standish,"  he  said,  "corporal,  shield  num 
ber  226,  on  train  guard."  He  continued  down 
the  aisle. 

"I'll  remember  you,"  Aintree  shouted. 

But  in  the  hot,  glaring  dawn  of  the  morning 
after,  Aintree  forgot.  It  was  Standish  who 
remembered. 

The  men  of  the  Zone  police  are  hand-picked. 
They  have  been  soldiers,  marines,  cowboys, 
sheriffs,  "Black  Hussars"  of  the  Pennsylvania 
State  constabulary,  rough  riders  with  Roose 
velt,  mounted  police  in  Canada,  irregular  horse 
in  South  Africa;  they  form  one  of  the  best- 
organized,  best-disciplined,  most  efficient,  most 
picturesque  semi-military  bodies  in  the  world. 
Standish  joined  them  from  the  Philippine  con 
stabulary  in  which  he  had  been  a  second  lieu 
tenant.  There  are  several  like  him  in  the  Zone 
police,  and  in  England  they  would  be  called 
gentlemen  rankers.  On  the  Isthmus,  because 
of  his  youth,  his  fellow  policemen  called  Stan- 
dish  "Kid."  And  smart  as  each  of  them  was, 
each  of  them  admitted  the  Kid  wore  his  uniform 
with  a  difference.  With  him  it  always  looked 
as  though  it  had  come  freshly  ironed  from  the 
Colon  laundry;  his  leather  leggings  shone  like 
meerschaum  pipes;  the  brim  of  his  sombrero 
rested  impudently  on  the  bridge  of  his  nose. 

"He's  been  an  officer,"  they  used  to  say  in 
33 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

extenuation.  "You  can  tell  when  he  salutes. 
He  shows  the  back  of  his  hand."  Secretly, 
they  were  proud  of  him.  Standish  came  of  a 
long  chain  of  soldiers,  and  that  the  weakest 
link  in  the  chain  had  proved  to  be  himself  was 
a  sorrow  no  one  else  but  himself  could  fathom. 
Since  he  was  three  years  old  he  had  been  trained 
to  be  a  soldier,  as  carefully,  with  the  same  sin 
gleness  of  purpose,  as  the  crown  prince  is  trained 
to  be  a  king.  And  when,  after  three  happy, 
glorious  years  at  West  Point,  he  was  found  not 
clever  enough  to  pass  the  examinations  and 
was  dropped,  he  did  not  curse  the  gods  and 
die,  but  began  again  to  work  his  way  up.  He 
was  determined  he  still  would  wear  shoulder- 
straps.  He  owed  it  to  his  ancestors.  It  was 
the  tradition  of  his  family,  the  one  thing  he 
wanted;  it  was  his  religion.  He  would  get  into 
the  army  even  if  by  the  side  door,  if  only  after 
many  years  of  rough  and  patient  service.  He 
knew  that  some  day,  through  his  record,  through 
the  opportunity  of  a  war,  he  would  come  into 
his  inheritance.  Meanwhile  he  officered  his 
soul,  disciplined  his  body,  and  daily  tried  to 
learn  the  lesson  that  he  who  hopes  to  control 
others  must  first  control  himself. 

He  allowed  himself  but  one  dissipation,  one 
excess.  That  was  to  hate  Major  Amtree,  com 
manding  the  Thirty-third  Infantry.  Of  all  the 

34 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS  PALMAS 

world  could  give,  Aintree  possessed  everything 
that  Standish  considered  the  most  to  be  de 
sired.  He  was  a  graduate  of  West  Point,  he 
had  seen  service  in  Cuba,  in  the  Boxer  business, 
and  in  the  Philippines.  For  an  act  of  conspicu 
ous  courage  at  Batangas,  he  had  received  the 
medal  of  honor.  He  had  had  the  luck  of  the 
devil.  Wherever  he  held  command  turned  out 
to  be  the  place  where  things  broke  loose.  And 
Aintree  always  attacked  and  routed  them,  al 
ways  was  the  man  on  the  job.  It  was  his  name 
that  appeared  in  the  newspapers,  it  was  his 
name  that  headed  the  list  of  the  junior  officers 
mentioned  for  distinguished  conduct.  Stan- 
dish  had  followed  his  career  with  an  admiration 
and  a  joy  that  was  without  taint  of  envy  or 
detraction.  He  gloried  in  Aintree,  he  delighted 
to  know  the  army  held  such  a  man.  He  was 
grateful  to  Aintree  for  upholding  the  traditions 
of  a  profession  to  which  he  himself  gave  all  the 
devotion  of  a  fanatic.  He  made  a  god  of  him. 
This  was  the  attitude  of  mind  toward  Aintree 
before  he  came  to  the  Isthmus.  Up  to  that 
time  he  had  never  seen  his  idol.  Aintree  had 
been  only  a  name  signed  to  brilliant  articles  in 
the  service  magazines,  a  man  of  whom  those 
who  had  served  with  him  or  under  him,  when 
asked  concerning  him,  spoke  with  loyalty  and 
awe,  the  man  the  newspapers  called  "the  hero 

35 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS  PALMAS 

of  Batangas."  And  when  at  last  he  saw  his 
hero,  he  believed  his  worship  was  justified.  For 
Aintree  looked  the  part.  He  was  built  like  a 
greyhound  with  the  shoulders  of  a  stevedore. 
His  chin  was  as  projecting,  and  as  hard,  as  the 
pointed  end  of  a  flat-iron.  His  every  move 
ment  showed  physical  fitness,  and  his  every 
glance  and  tone  a  confidence  in  himself  that 
approached  insolence.  He  was  thirty-eight, 
twelve  years  older  than  the  youth  who  had 
failed  to  make  his  commission,  and  who,  as 
Aintree  strode  past,  looked  after  him  with 
wistful,  hero-worshipping  eyes.  The  revulsion, 
when  it  came,  was  extreme.  The  hero-worship 
gave  way  to  contempt,  to  indignant  condem 
nation,  in  which  there  was  no  pity,  no  excuse. 
That  one  upon  whom  so  much  had  been  lav 
ished,  who  for  himself  had  accomplished  such 
good  things,  should  bring  disgrace  upon  his 
profession,  should  by  his  example  demoralize 
his  men,  should  risk  losing  all  he  had  attained, 
all  that  had  been  given,  was  intolerable.  When 
Standish  learned  his  hero  was  a  drunkard,  when 
day  after  day  Aintree  furnished  visible  evidences 
of  that  fact,  Standish  felt  Aintree  had  betrayed 
him  and  the  army  and  the  government  that 
had  educated,  trained,  clothed,  and  fed  him. 
He  regarded  Aintree  as  worse  than  Benedict 
Arnold,  because  Arnold  had  turned  traitor  for 

36 


THE  MIRACLE  OF   LAS   PALMAS 

power  and  money;  Aintree  was  a  traitor  through 
mere  weakness,  because  he  could  not  say  "no" 
to  a  bottle. 

Only  in  secret  Standish  railed  against  Ain 
tree.  When  his  brother  policemen  gossiped  and 
jested  about  him,  out  of  loyalty  to  the  army 
he  remained  silent.  But  in  his  heart  he  could 
not  forgive.  The  man  he  had  so  generously 
envied,  the  man  after  whose  career  he  had 
wished  to  model  his  own,  had  voluntarily 
stepped  from  his  pedestal  and  made  a  swine  of 
himself.  And  not  only  could  he  not  forgive, 
but  as  day  after  day  Aintree  furnished  fresh 
food  for  his  indignation  he  felt  a  fierce  desire 
to  punish. 

Meanwhile,  of  the  conduct  of  Aintree,  men 
older  and  wiser,  if  less  intolerant  than  Standish, 
were  beginning  to  take  notice.  It  was  after  a 
dinner  on  Ancon  Hill,  and  the  women  had  left 
the  men  to  themselves.  They  were  the  men 
who  were  placing  the  Panama  Canal  on  the 
map.  They  were  officers  of  the  army  who  for 
five  years  had  not  worn  a  uniform.  But  for 
five  years  they  had  been  at  war  with  an  enemy 
that  never  slept.  Daily  they  had  engaged  in 
battle  with  mountains,  rivers,  swamps,  two 
oceans,  and  disease.  Where  Aintree  command 
ed  five  hundred  soldiers,  they  commanded  a 
body  of  men  better  drilled,  better  disciplined, 

37 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

and  in  number  half  as  many  as  those  who 
formed  the  entire  army  of  the  United  States. 
The  mind  of  each  was  occupied  with  a  world 
problem.  They  thought  and  talked  in  millions 
— of  millions  of  cubic  yards  of  dirt,  of  millions 
of  barrels  of  cement,  of  millions  of  tons  of  steel, 
of  hundreds  of  millions  of  dollars,  of  which 
latter  each  received  enough  to  keep  himself 
and  his  family  just  beyond  the  reach  of  neces 
sity.  To  these  men  with  the  world  waiting 
upon  the  outcome  of  their  endeavor,  with  re 
sponsibilities  that  never  relaxed,  Aintree's  be 
havior  was  an  incident,  an  annoyance  of  less 
importance  than  an  overturned  dirt  train  that 
for  five  minutes  dared  to  block  the  completion 
of  their  work.  But  they  were  human  and  loyal 
to  the  army,  and  in  such  an  infrequent  moment 
as  this,  over  the  coffee  and  cigars,  they  could 
afford  to  remember  the  junior  officer,  to  feel 
sorry  for  him,  for  the  sake  of  the  army,  to  save 
him  from  himself. 

"He  takes  his  orders  direct  from  the  War 
Department,"  said  the  chief.  "I've  no  au 
thority  over  him.  If  he'd  been  one  of  my 
workmen  I'd  have  shipped  him  north  three 
months  ago." 

"That's  it,"  said  the  surgeon,  "he's  not  a 
workman.  He  has  nothing  to  do,  and  idleness 
is  the  curse  of  the  army.  And  in  this  cli 
mate " 

38 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS  PALMAS 

"Nothing  to  do!"  snorted  the  civil  adminis 
trator.  "Keeping  his  men  in  hand  is  what  he 
has  to  do!  They're  running  amuck  all  over 
Panama,  getting  into  fights  with  the  Spiggoty  po 
lice,  bringing  the  uniform  into  contempt.  As  for 
the  climate,  it's  the  same  climate  for  all  of  us. 
Look  at  Butler's  marines  and  Barber's  Zone 
police.  The  climate  hasn't  hurt  them.  They're 
as  smart  men  as  ever  wore  khaki.  It's  not  the 
climate  or  lack  of  work  that  ails  the  Thirty- 
third,  it's  their  commanding  officer.  'So  the 
colonel,  so  the  regiment.'  That's  as  old  as  the 
hills.  Until  Aintree  takes  a  brace,  his  men 
won't.  Some  one  ought  to  talk  to  him.  It's  a 
shame  to  see  a  fine  fellow  like  that  going  to 
the  dogs  because  no  one  has  the  courage  to 
tell  him  the  truth." 

The  chief  smiled  mockingly. 

"Then  why  don't  you?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  a  civilian,"  protested  the  administrator. 
"If  I  told  him  he  was  going  to  the  dogs  he'd 
tell  me  to  go  to  the  devil.  No,  one  of  you 
army  men  must  do  it.  He'll  listen  to  you." 

Young  Captain  Haldane  of  the  cavalry  was 
at  the  table;  he  was  visiting  Panama  on  leave 
as  a  tourist.  The  chief  turned  to  him. 

"Haldane's  the  man,"  he  said.  "You're  his 
friend  and  you're  his  junior  in  rank,  so  what 
you  say  won't  sound  official.  Tell  him  people 
are  talking;  tell  him  it  won't  be  long  be- 

39 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

fore  they'll  be  talking  in  Washington.  Scare 
him!" 

The  captain  of  cavalry  smiled  dubiously. 

"Ain  tree's  a  hard  man  to  scare,"  he  said. 
"But  if  it's  as  bad  as  you  all  seem  to  think,  I'll 
risk  it.  But,  why  is  it,"  he  complained,  "that 
whenever  a  man  has  to  be  told  anything  par 
ticularly  unpleasant  they  always  pick  on  his 
best  friend  to  tell  him?  It  makes  them  both 
miserable.  Why  not  let  his  bitterest  enemy 
try  it?  The  enemy  at  least  would  have  a  fine 
time." 

"Because,"  said  the  chief,  "Aintree  hasn't 
an  enemy  in  the  world — except  Aintree." 

The  next  morning,  as  he  had  promised,  Hal- 
dane  called  upon  his  friend.  When  he  arrived 
at  Las  Palmas,  although  the  morning  was  well 
advanced  toward  noon,  he  found  Aintree  still 
under  his  mosquito  bars  and  awake  only  to 
command  a  drink.  The  situation  furnished 
Haldane  with  his  text.  He  expressed  his  opin 
ion  of  any  individual,  friend  or  no  friend,  officer 
or  civilian,  who  on  the  Zone,  where  all  men  be 
gin  work  at  sunrise,  could  be  found  at  noon 
still  in  his  pajamas  and  preparing  to  face  the 
duties  of  the  day  on  an  absinth  cocktail.  He 
said  further  that  since  he  had  arrived  on  the 
isthmus  he  had  heard  only  of  Aintree's  miscon 
duct,  that  soon  the  War  Department  would 

40 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

hear  of  it,  that  Aintree  would  lose  his  commis 
sion,  would  break  the  backbone  of  a  splendid 
career. 

"It's  a  friend  talking,"  continued  Haldane, 
"and  you  know  it!  It's  because  I  am  your 
friend  that  I've  risked  losing  your  friendship ! 
And,  whether  you  like  it  or  not,  it's  the  truth. 
You're  going  down-hill,  going  fast,  going  like 
a  motor-bus  running  away,  and  unless  you  put 
on  the  brakes  you'll  smash!" 

Aintree  was  not  even  annoyed. 

"That's  good  advice  for  the  right  man,"  he 
granted,  "but  why  waste  it  on  me?  I  can  do 
things  other  men  can't.  I  can  stop  drinking 
this  minute,  and  it  will  mean  so  little  to  me 
that  I  won't  know  I've  stopped." 

"Then  stop,"  said  Haldane. 

"Why?"  demanded  Aintree.  "I  like  it. 
Why  should  I  stop  anything  I  like?  Because 
a  lot  of  old  women  are  gossiping?  Because  old 
men  who  can't  drink  green  mint  without  danc 
ing  turkey-trots  think  I'm  going  to  the  devil 
because  I  can  drink  whiskey?  I'm  not  afraid 
of  whiskey,"  he  laughed  tolerantly.  "  It  amuses 
me,  that's  all  it  does  to  me;  it  amuses  me."  He 
pulled  back  the  coat  of  his  pajamas  and  showed 
his  giant  chest  and  shoulder.  With  his  fist  he 
struck  his  bare  flesh  and  it  glowed  instantly  a 
healthy,  splendid  pink. 

41 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

" See  that ! "  commanded  Aintree.  "If  there's 
a  man  on  the  isthmus  in  any  better  physical 
shape  than  I  am,  I'll — "  He  interrupted  him 
self  to  begin  again  eagerly.  "I'll  make  you 
a  sporting  proposition,"  he  announced.  "I'll 
fight  any  man  on  the  isthmus  ten  rounds — no 
matter  who  he  is,  a  wop  laborer,  shovel  man, 
Barbadian  nigger,  marine,  anybody — and  if  he 
can  knock  me  out  I'll  stop  drinking.  You  see," 
he  explained  patiently,  "I'm  no  mollycoddle  or 
jelly-fish.  I  can  afford  a  headache.  And  be 
sides,  it's  my  own  head.  If  I  don't  give  any 
body  else  a  headache,  I  don't  see  that  it's  any 
body  else's  damned  business." 

"But  you  do,"  retorted  Haldane  steadily. 
"You're  giving  your  own  men  worse  than  a 
headache,  you're  setting  them  a  rotten  example, 
you're  giving  the  Thirty-third  a  bad  name " 

Aintree  vaulted  off  his  cot  and  shook  his  fist 
at  his  friend. 

"You  can't  say  that  to  me"  he  cried. 

"I  do  say  it,"  protested  Haldane.  "When 
you  were  in  Manila  your  men  were  models;  here 
they're  unshaven,  sloppy,  undisciplined.  They 
look  like  bell-hops.  And  it's  your  fault.  And 
everybody  thinks  so." 

Slowly  and  carefully  Aintree  snapped  his 
fingers. 

"And  you  can  tell  everybody,  from  me,"  he 
42 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS  PALMAS 

cried,  "that's  all  I  care  what  they  think!  And 
now,"  he  continued,  smiling  hospitably,  "let 
me  congratulate  you  on  your  success  as  a  mis 
sionary,  and,  to  show  you  there's  not  a  trace  of 
hard  feeling,  we  will  have  a  drink." 

Informally  Haldane  reported  back  to  the 
commission,  and  the  wife  of  one  of  them  must 
have  talked,  for  it  was  soon  known  that  a 
brother  officer  had  appealed  to  Aintree  to  re 
form,  and  Aintree  had  refused  to  listen. 

When  she  heard  this,  Grace  Carter,  the  wife 
of  Major  Carter,  one  of  the  surgeons  at  the 
Ancon  Hospital,  was  greatly  perturbed.  Ain 
tree  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  Helen  Scott, 
who  was  her  best  friend  and  who  was  arriving 
by  the  next  steamer  to  spend  the  winter.  When 
she  had  Helen  safely  under  her  roof,  Mrs. 
Carter  had  planned  to  marry  off  the  young 
couple  out  of  hand  on  the  isthmus.  But  she 
had  begun  to  wonder  if  it  would  not  be  better 
they  should  delay,  or  best  that  they  should 
never  marry. 

"The  awakening  is  going  to  be  a  terrible  blow 
to  Helen,"  she  said  to  her  husband.  "She  is  so 
proud  of  him." 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  protested,  "it  will  be 
the  awakening  of  Aintree — if  Helen  will  stand 
for  the  way  he's  acting,  she  is  not  the  girl  I 
know.  And  when  he  finds  she  won't,  and  that 
he  may  lose  her,  he'll  pull  up  short.  He's 

43 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS  PALMAS 

talked  Helen  to  me  night  after  night  until  he's 
bored  me  so  I  could  strangle  him.  He  cares 
more  for  her  than  he  does  for  anything,  for  the 
army,  or  for  himself,  and  that's  saying  a  great 
deal.  One  word  from  her  will  be  enough." 

Helen  spoke  the  word  three  weeks  after  she 
arrived.  It  had  not  been  necessary  to  tell  her 
of  the  manner  in  which  her  lover  was  miscon 
ducting  himself.  At  various  dinners  given  in 
their  honor  he  had  made  a  nuisance  of  himself; 
on  another  occasion,  while  in  uniform,  he  had 
created  a  scene  in  the  dining-room  of  the  Tivoli 
under  the  prying  eyes  of  three  hundred  seeing- 
the-Canal  tourists;  and  one  night  he  had  so 
badly  beaten  up  a  cabman  who  had  laughed  at 
his  condition  that  the  man  went  to  the  hospital. 
Major  Carter,  largely  with  money,  had  healed 
the  injuries  of  the  cabman,  but  Helen,  who  had 
witnessed  the  assault,  had  suffered  an  injury 
that  money  could  not  heal. 

She  sent  for  Aintree,  and  at  the  home  of  her 
friend  delivered  her  ultimatum. 

"  I  hit  him  because  he  was  offensive  to  you," 
said  Aintree.  "That's  why  I  hit  him.  If  I'd 
not  had  a  drink  in  a  year,  I'd  have  hit  him  just 
as  quick  and  just  as  hard." 

"Can't  you  see,"  said  the  girl,  "that  in  being 
not  yourself  when  I  was  in  your  care  you  were 
much  more  insulting  to  me  than  any  cabman 
could  possibly  be?  When  you  are  like  that 

44 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

you  have  no  respect  for  me,  or  for  yourself. 
Part  of  my  pride  in  you  is  that  you  are  so 
strong,  that  you  control  yourself,  that  common 
pleasures  never  get  a  hold  on  you.  If  you 
couldn't  control  your  temper  I  wouldn't  blame 
you,  because  you've  a  villainous  temper  and 
you  were  born  with  it.  But  you  weren't  born 
with  a  taste  for  liquor.  None  of  your  people 
drank.  You  never  drank  until  you  went  into 
the  army.  If  I  were  a  man,"  declared  the  girl, 
"I'd  be  ashamed  to  admit  anything  was  stronger 
than  I  was.  You  never  let  pain  beat  you.  I've 
seen  you  play  polo  with  a  broken  arm,  but  in 
this  you  give  pain  to  others,  you  shame  and 
humiliate  the  one  you  pretend  to  love,  just 
because  you  are  weak,  just  because  you  can't 
say  'no.'" 

Aintree  laughed  angrily. 

"Drink  has  no  hold  on  me,"  he  protested. 
"It  affects  me  as  much  as  the  lights  and  the 
music  affect  a  girl  at  her  first  dance,  and  no 
more.  But,  if  you  ask  me  to  stop " 

"I  do  not!"  said  the  girl.  "If  you  stop, 
you'll  stop  not  because  I  have  any  influence 
over  you,  but  because  you  don't  need  my  influ 
ence.  If  it's  wrong,  if  it's  hurting  you,  if  it's 
taking  away  your  usefulness  and  your  power 
for  good,  that's  why  you'll  stop.  Not  because  a 
girl  begs  you.  Or  you're  not  the  man  I  think 

you." 

45 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS  PALMAS 

Aintree  retorted  warmly.  "I'm  enough  of  a 
man  for  this,"  he  protested:  "I'm  enough  of  a 
man  not  to  confess  I  can't  drink  without  mak 
ing  a  beast  of  myself.  It's  easy  not  to  drink 
at  all.  But  to  stop  altogether  is  a  confession 
of  weakness.  I'd  look  on  my  doing  that  as 
cowardly.  I  give  you  my  word — not  that  I'll 
swear  off,  that  I'll  never  do — but  I  promise  you 
you'll  have  no  further  reason  to  be  what  you 
call  humiliated,  or  ashamed.  You  have  my 
word  for  it." 

A  week  later  Aintree  rode  his  pony  into  a 
railway  cutting  and  rolled  with  it  to  the  tracks 
below,  and,  if  at  the  time  he  had  not  been 
extremely  drunk,  would  have  been  killed.  The 
pony,  being  quite  sober,  broke  a  leg  and  was 
destroyed. 

When  word  of  this  came  to  Helen  she  was 
too  sick  at  heart  to  see  Aintree,  and  by  others 
it  was  made  known  to  him  that  on  the  first 
steamer  Miss  Scott  would  return  North.  Ain 
tree  knew  why  she  was  going,  knew  she  had 
lost  faith  and  patience,  knew  the  woman  he 
loved  had  broken  with  him  and  put  him  out 
of  her  life.  Appalled  at  this  calamity,  he  pro 
ceeded  to  get  drunk  in  earnest. 

The  night  was  very  hot  and  the  humidity 
very  heavy,  and  at  Las  Palmas  inside  the  bun 
galow  that  served  as  a  police-station  the  lamps 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

on  either  side  of  the  lieutenant's  desk  burned 
like  tiny  furnaces.  Between  them,  panting  in 
the  moist  heat  and  with  the  sweat  from  his 
forehead  and  hand  dripping  upon  an  otherwise 
immaculate  report,  sat  Standish.  Two  weeks 
before,  the  chief  had  made  him  one  of  his  six 
lieutenants.  With  the  force  the  promotion  had 
been  most  popular. 

Since  his  promotion  Standish  had  been  in 
charge  of  the  police-station  at  Las  Palmas  and 
daily  had  seen  Aintree  as,  on  his  way  down  the 
hill  from  the  barracks  to  the  railroad,  the  hero 
of  Batangas  passed  the  door  of  the  station- 
house.  Also,  on  the  morning  Aintree  had 
jumped  his  horse  over  the  embankment,  Stan- 
dish  had  seen  him  carried  up  the  hill  on  a 
stretcher.  At  the  sight  the  lieutenant  of  police 
had  taken  from  his  pocket  a  note-book,  and  on  a 
flyleaf  made  a  cross.  On  the  flyleaf  were  many 
other  dates  and  opposite  each  a  cross.  It  was 
Aintree's  record  and  as  the  number  of  black 
crosses  grew,  the  greater  had  grown  the  resent 
ment  of  Standish,  the  more  greatly  it  had  in 
creased  his  anger  against  the  man  who  had  put 
this  affront  upon  the  army,  the  greater  became 
his  desire  to  punish. 

In  police  circles  the  night  had  been  quiet,  the 
cells  in  the  yard  were  empty,  the  telephone  at 
his  elbow  had  remained  silent,  and  Standish, 

47 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

alone  in  the  station-house,  had  employed  him 
self  in  cramming  "Moss's  Manual  for  Subal 
terns.'*  He  found  it  a  fascinating  exercise. 
The  hope  that  soon  he  might  himself  be  a  sub 
altern  always  burned  brightly,  and  to  be  pre 
pared  seemed  to  make  the  coming  of  that  day 
more  certain.  It  was  ten  o'clock  and  Las 
Palmas  lay  sunk  in  slumber,  and  after  the  down 
train  which  was  now  due  had  passed,  there  was 
nothing  likely  to  disturb  her  slumber  until  at 
sunrise  the  great  army  of  dirt-diggers  with 
shrieks  of  whistles,  with  roars  of  dynamite,  with 
the  rumbling  of  dirt-trains  and  steam-shovels, 
again  sprang  to  the  attack.  Down  the  hill,  a 
hundred  yards  below  Standish,  the  night  train 
halted  at  the  station,  with  creakings  and  groan- 
ings  continued  toward  Colon,  and  again  Las 
Palmas  returned  to  sleep. 

And,  then,  quickly  and  viciously,  like  the 
crack  of  a  mule-whip,  came  the  reports  of  a 
pistol;  and  once  more  the  hot  and  dripping 
silence. 

On  post  at  the  railroad-station,  whence  the 
shots  came,  was  Meehan,  one  of  the  Zone  po 
lice,  an  ex-sergeant  of  marines.  On  top  of  the 
hill,  outside  the  infantry  barracks,  was  another 
policeman,  BuIIard,  once  a  cowboy. 

Standish  ran  to  the  veranda  and  heard  the 
pebbles  scattering  as  BuIIard  leaped  down  the 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

hill,  and  when,  in  the  light  from  the  open  door, 
he  passed,  the  lieutenant  shouted  at  him  to  find 
Meehan  and  report  back.  Then  the  desk  tele 
phone  rang,  and  Standish  returned  to  his  chair. 

"This  is  Meehan,"  said  a  voice.  "Those 
shots  just  now  were  fired  by  Major  Aintree. 
He  came  down  on  the  night  train  and  jumped 
off  after  the  train  was  pulling  out  and  stumbled 
into  a  negro,  and  fell.  He's  been  drinking  and 
he  swore  the  nigger  pushed  him;  and  the  man 
called  Aintree  a  liar.  Aintree  pulled  his  gun 
and  the  nigger  ran.  Aintree  fired  twice;  then  I 
got  to  him  and  knocked  the  gun  out  of  his  hand 
with  my  nightstick." 

There  was  a  pause.  Until  he  was  sure  his 
voice  would  be  steady  and  official,  the  boy  lieu 
tenant  did  not  speak. 

"Did  he  hit  the  negro?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  Meehan  answered.  "The 
man  jumped  for  the  darkest  spot  he  could  find." 
The  voice  of  Meehan  lost  its  professional  calm 
and  became  personal  and  aggrieved. 

"Aintree's  on  his  way  to  see  you  now,  lieu 
tenant.  He's  going  to  report  me." 

"For  what?" 

The  voice  over  the  telephone  rose  indignantly. 

"For  knocking  the  gun  out  of  his  hand.  He 
says  it's  an  assault.  He's  going  to  break  me!'* 

Standish  made  no  comment. 
49 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

"  Report  here,"  he  ordered. 

He  heard  BuIIard  hurrying  up  the  hill  and 
met  him  at  the  foot  of  the  steps. 

"There's  a  nigger,"  began  BuIIard,  "lying 
under  some  bushes " 

"Hush!"  commanded  Standish. 

From  the  path  below  came  the  sound  of  foot 
steps  approaching  unsteadily,  and  the  voice  of 
a  man  swearing  and  muttering  to  himself. 
Standish  pulled  the  ex-cowboy  into  the  shadow 
of  the  darkness  and  spoke  in  eager  whispers. 

"You  understand,"  he  concluded,  "you  will 
not  report  until  you  see  me  pick  up  a  cigar 
from  the  desk  and  light  it.  You  will  wait  out 
here  in  the  darkness.  When  you  see  me  light 
the  cigar,  you  will  come  in  and  report." 

The  cowboy  policeman  nodded,  but  without 
enthusiasm.  "I  understand,  lieutenant,"  he 
said,  "but,"  he  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  "it 
sizes  up  to  me  like  what  those  police  up  in  New 
York  call  a  'frame-up." 

Standish  exclaimed  impatiently. 

"It's  not  my  frame-up!"  he  said.  "The 
man's  framed  himself  up.  All  I'm  going  to  do 
is  to  nail  him  to  the  wall !" 

Standish  had  only  time  to  return  to  his  desk 
when  Aintree  stumbled  up  the  path  and  into 
the  station-house.  He  was  "fighting  drunk," 
ugly,  offensive,  all  but  incoherent  with  anger. 

50 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

"You  in  charge?"  he  demanded.  He  did 
not  wait  for  an  answer.  "I've  been  'saulted!" 
he  shouted.  *  'Saulted  by  one  of  your  damned 
policemen.  He  struck  me — struck  me  when  I 
was  protecting  myself.  He  had  a  nigger  with 
him.  First  the  nigger  tripped  me;  then,  when 
I  tried  to  protect  myself,  this  thug  of  yours  hits 
me,  clubs  me,  you  unnerstan',  clubs  me!  I 
want  him " 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Mee- 
han,  who  moved  into  the  light  from  the  lamps 
and  saluted  his  lieutenant. 

"That's  the  man!"  roared  Aintree.  The 
sight  of  Meehan  whipped  him  into  greater  fury. 

"I  want  that  man  broke.  I  want  to  see  you 
strip  his  shield  off  him — now;,  you  unnerstan', 
now — for  'saulting  me,  for  'saulting  an  officer  in 
the  United  States  army.  And,  if  you  </on  V  he 
threw  himself  into  a  position  of  the  prize-ring, 
"I'll  beat  him  up  and  you,  too."  Through 
want  of  breath,  he  stopped,  and  panted.  Again 
his  voice  broke  forth  hysterically.  "I'm  not 
afraid  of  your  damned  night-sticks,"  he  taunted. 
"I  got  five  hundred  men  on  top  this  hill,  all 
I've  got  to  do  is  to  say  the  word,  and  they'll 
rough-house  this  place  ano!  throw  it  into  the 
cut — and  you  with  it." 

Standish  rose  to  his  feet,  and  across  the  desk 
looked  steadily  at  Aintree.  To  Aintree  the 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

steadiness  of  his  eyes  and  the  quietness  of  his 
voice  were  an  added  aggravation. 

"Suppose  you  did/'  said  Standish,  "that 
would  not  save  you." 

"From  what?"  roared  Aintree.  "Think  I'm 
afraid  of  your  night-sticks?" 

"From  arrest!" 

"Arrest  me/"  yelled  Aintree.  "Do  you  know 
who's  talking  to  you?  Do  you  know  who  I 
am?  I'm  Major  Aintree,  damn  you,  command 
ing  the  infantry.  An'  I'm  here  to  charge  that 
thug- 

"You  are  here  because  you  are  under  arrest," 
said  Standish.  "You  are  arrested  for  threat 
ening  the  police,  drunkenness,  and  assaulting  a 
citizen  with  intent  to  kill — "  The  voice  of  the 
young  man  turned  shrill  and  rasping.  "And 
if  the  man  should  die " 

Aintree  burst  into  a  bellow  of  mocking 
laughter. 

Standish  struck  the  desk  with  his  open  palm. 

"Silence!"  he  commanded. 

"Silence  to  me/"  roared  Aintree,  "you  im 
pertinent  pup!"  He  flung  himself  forward, 
shaking  his  fist.  "I'm  Major  Aintree.  I'm 
your  superior  officer.  I'm  an  officer  an*  a  gen 
tleman " 

"You  are  not!"  replied  Standish.  "You  are 
a  drunken  loafer !" 

52 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

Aintree  could  not  break  the  silence.  Amaze 
ment,  rage,  stupefaction  held  him  in  incredulous 
wonder.  Even  Meehan  moved  uneasily.  Be 
tween  the  officer  commanding  the  infantry  and 
an  officer  of  police,  he  feared  the  lieutenant 
would  not  survive. 

But  he  heard  the  voice  of  his  lieutenant  con 
tinuing,  evenly,  coldly,  like  the  voice  of  a  judge 
delivering  sentence. 

"You  are  a  drunken  loafer,"  repeated  the 
boy.  "And  you  know  it.  And  I  mean  that 
to-morrow  morning  every  one  on  the  Zone 
shall  know  it.  And  I  mean  to-morrow  night 
every  one  in  the  States  shall  know  it.  You've 
killed  a  man,  or  tried  to,  and  I'm  going  to 
break  you."  With  his  arm  he  pointed  to 
Meehan.  "Break  that  man?"  he  demanded. 
"For  doing  his  duty,  for  trying  to  stop  a  mur 
der?  Strip  him  of  his  shield?"  The  boy 
laughed  savagely.  "It's  you  I  am  going  to 
strip,  Aintree,"  he  cried,  "you  'hero  of  Batan- 
gas';  I'm  going  to  strip  you  naked.  I'm  going 
to  'cut  the  buttons  off  your  coat,  and  tear  the 
stripes  away.'  I'm  going  to  degrade  you  and 
disgrace  you,  and  drive  you  out  of  the  army !" 
He  threw  his  note-book  on  the  table.  "There's 
your  dossier,  Aintree,"  he  said.  "  For  three 
months  you've  been  drunk,  and  there's  your 
record.  The  police  got  it  for  me;  it's  written 

53 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

there  with  dates  and  the  names  of  witnesses. 
I'll  swear  to  it.  I've  been  after  you  to  get  you, 
and  I've  got  you.  With  that  book,  with  what 
you  did  to-night,  you'll  leave  the  army.  You 
may  resign,  you  may  be  court-martialled,  you 
may  be  hung.  I  don't  give  a  damn  what  they 
do  to  you,  but  you  will  leave  the  army!" 

He  turned  to  Meehan,  and  with  a  jerk  of  the 
hand  signified  Aintree. 

"Put  him  in  a  cell,"  he  said.  "If  he  re 
sists " 

Aintree  gave  no  sign  of  resisting.  He  stood 
motionless,  his  arms  hanging  limp,  his  eyes  pro 
truding.  The  liquor  had  died  in  him,  and 
his  anger  had  turned  chill.  He  tried  to  moisten 
his  lips  to  speak,  but  his  throat  was  baked,  and 
no  sound  issued.  He  tried  to  focus  his  eyes 
upon  the  menacing  little  figure  behind  the  desk, 
but  between  the  two  lamps  it  swayed,  and 
shrank  and  swelled.  Of  one  thing  only  was  he 
sure,  that  some  grave  disaster  had  overtaken 
him,  something  that  when  he  came  fully  to  his 
senses  still  would  overwhelm  him,  something  he 
could  not  conquer  with  his  fists.  His  brain, 
even  befuddled  as  it  was,  told  him  he  had  been 
caught  by  the  heels,  that  he  was  in  a  trap,  that 
smashing  this  boy  who  threatened  him  could 
not  set  him  free.  He  recognized,  and  it  was 
this  knowledge  that  stirred  him  with  alarm, 

54 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS  PALMAS 

that  this  was  no  ordinary  officer  of  justice,  but 
a  personal  enemy,  an  avenging  spirit  who,  for 
some  unknown  reason,  had  spread  a  trap;  who, 
for  some  private  purpose  of  revenge,  would 
drag  him  down. 

Frowning  painfully,  he  waved  Meehan  from 
him. 

"Wait,"  he  commanded.  "I  don*  unner- 
stan'.  What  good's  it  goin'  to  do  you  to  lock 
me  up  an'  disgrace  me?  What  harm  have  I 
done  you?  Who  asked  you  to  run  the  army, 
anyway?  Who  are  you?" 

"My  name  is  Standish,"  said  the  lieutenant. 
"My  father  was  colonel  of  the  Thirty-third 
when  you  first  joined  it  from  the  Academy." 

Aintree  exclaimed  with  surprise  and  enlight 
enment.  He  broke  into  hurried  speech,  but 
Standish  cut  him  short. 

"And  General  Standish  of  the  Mexican  War," 
he  continued,  "was  my  grandfather.  Since 
Washington  all  my  people  have  been  officers  of 
the  regular  army,  and  I'd  been  one,  too,  if  Fd 
been  bright  enough.  That's  why  I  respect  the 
army.  That's  why  I'm  going  to  throw  you 
out  of  it.  You've  done  harm  fifty  men  as  good 
as  you  can't  undo.  You've  made  drunkards  of 
a  whole  battalion.  You've  taught  boys  who 
looked  up  to  you,  as  I  looked  up  to  you  once, 
to  laugh  at  discipline,  to  make  swine  of  them- 

55 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

selves.  You've  set  them  an  example.  I'm 
going  to  make  an  example  of  you.  That's  all 
there  is  to  this.  I've  got  no  grudge  against  you. 
I'm  not  vindictive;  I'm  sorry  for  you.  But," 
he  paused  and  pointed  his  hand  at  Aintree  as 
though  it  held  a  gun,  "you  are  going  to  leave 
the  army!*1 

Like  a  man  coming  out  of  an  ugly  dream, 
Aintree  opened  and  shut  his  eyes,  shivered, 
and  stretched  his  great  muscles.  They  watched 
him  with  an  effort  of  the  will  force  himself  back 
to  consciousness.  When  again  he  spoke,  his 
tone  was  sane. 

"See  here,  Standish,"  he  began,  "I'll  not  beg 
of  you  or  any  man.  I  only  ask  you  to  think 
what  you're  doing.  This  means  my  finish.  If 
you  force  this  through  to-night  it  means  court- 
martial,  it  means  I  lose  my  commission,  I  lose 
— lose  things  you  know  nothing  about.  And, 
if  I've  got  a  record  for  drinking,  I've  got  a 
record  for  other  things,  too.  Don't  forget 
that!" 

Standish  shook  his  head.  "7  didn't  forget 
it,"  he  said. 

"Well,  suppose  7  did,"  demanded  Aintree. 
"Suppose  I  did  go  on  the  loose,  just  to  pass  the 
time,  just  because  I'm  sick  of  this  damned 
ditch?  Is  it  fair  to  wipe  out  all  that  went  be 
fore,  for  that?  I'm  the  youngest  major  in  the 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS  PALMAS 

army,  I  served  in  three  campaigns,  I'm  a  medal- 
of-honor  man,  I've  got  a  career  ahead  of  me, 
and — and  I'm  going  to  be  married.  If  you 
give  me  a  chance " 

Standish  struck  the  table  with  his  fist. 

"I  will  give  you  a  chance,"  he  cried.  "If 
you'll  give  your  word  to  this  man  and  to  me, 
that,  so  help  you  God,  you'll  never  drink  again 
—I'll  let  you  go." 

If  what  Standish  proposed  had  been  some 
thing  base,  Aintree  could  not  have  accepted  it 
with  more  contempt. 

"  I'll  see  you  in  hell  first,"  he  said. 

As  though  the  interview  was  at  an  end, 
Standish  dropped  into  his  chair  and  leaning 
forward,  from  the  table  picked  up  a  cigar.  As 
he  lit  it,  he  motioned  Meehan  toward  his  pris 
oner,  but  before  the  policeman  could  advance 
the  sound  of  footsteps  halted  him. 

BuIIard,  his  eyes  filled  with  concern,  leaped 
up  the  steps,  and  ran  to  the  desk. 

"Lieutenant!"  he  stammered,  "that  man — 
the  nigger  that  officer  shot — he's  dead!" 

Aintree  gave  a  gasp  that  was  partly  a  groan, 
partly  a  cry  of  protest,  and  BuIIard,  as  though 
for  the  first  time  aware  of  his  presence,  sprang 
back  to  the  open  door  and  placed  himself  be 
tween  it  and  Aintree. 

"It's  murder!"  he  said. 
57 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

None  of  the  three  men  spoke;  and  when 
Meehan  crossed  to  where  Aintree  stood,  staring 
fearfully  at  nothing,  he  had  only  to  touch  his 
sleeve,  and  Aintree,  still  staring,  fell  into  step 
beside  him. 

From  the  yard  outside  Standish  heard  the 
iron  door  of  the  cell  swing  shut,  heard  the  key 
grate  in  the  lock,  and  the  footsteps  of  Meehan 
returning. 

Meehan  laid  the  key  upon  the  desk,  and  with 
BuIIard  stood  at  attention,  waiting. 

"Give  him  time,"  whispered  Standish.  "Let 
it  sink  in!" 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  Standish  heard 
Aintree  calling,  and,  with  Meehan  carrying  a 
lantern,  stepped  into  the  yard  and  stopped  at 
the  cell  door. 

Aintree  was  quite  sober.  His  face  was  set 
and  white,  his  voice  was  dull  with  suffer 
ing.  He  stood  erect,  clasping  the  bars  in  his 
hands. 

"Standish,"  he  said,  "you  gave  me  a  chance  a 
while  ago,  and  I  refused  it.  I  was  rough  about 
h.  I'm  sorry.  It  made  me  hot  because  I 
thought  you  were  forcing  my  hand,  blackmailing 
me  into  doing  something  I  ought  to  do  as  a  free 
agent.  Now,  I  am  a  free  agent.  You  couldn't 
give  me  a  chance  now,  you  couldn't  let  me  go 
now,  not  if  I  swore  on  a  thousand  Bibles.  I 

58 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS  PALMAS 

don't  know  what  they'll  give  me — Leavenworth 
for  life,  or  hanging,  or  just  dismissal.  But, 
youve  got  what  you  wanted — I'm  leaving  the 
army!"  Between  the  bars  he  stretched  out 
his  arms  and  held  a  hand  toward  Meehan  and 
Standish.  In  the  same  dull,  numbed  voice  he 
continued. 

"So,  now,"  he  went  on,  "that  I've  nothing 
to  gain  by  it,  I  want  to  swear  to  you  and  to 
this  man  here,  that  whether  I  hang,  or  go  to 
jail,  or  am  turned  loose,  I  will  never,  so  help  me 
God,  take  another  drink." 

Standish  was  holding  the  hand  of  the  man 
who  once  had  been  his  hero.  He  clutched  it 
tight. 

"Aintree,"  he  cried,  "suppose  I  could  work 
a  miracle;  suppose  I've  played  a  trick  on  you, 
to  show  you  your  danger,  to  show  you  what 
might  come  to  you  any  day — does  that  oath 
still  stand?" 

The  hand  that  held  his  ground  the  bones  to 
gether. 

"I've  given  my  word!"  cried  Aintree.  "For 
the  love  of  God,  don't  torture  me.  Is  the  man 
alive?" 

As  Standish  swung  open  the  cell  door,  the 
hero  of  Batangas,  he  who  could  thrash  any  man 
on  the  isthmus,  crumpled  up  like  a  child  upon 
his  shoulder. 

59 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

And  Meehan,  as  he  ran  for  water,  shouted 
joyfully. 

"That  nigger,"  he  called  to  BuIIard,  "can  go 
home  now.  The  lieutenant  don't  want  him  no 


more." 


60 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO  EVIL  THINKS 

As  a  rule,  the  instant  the  season  closed  Aline 
Proctor  sailed  on  the  first  steamer  for  London, 
where  awaited  her  many  friends,  both  English 
and  American — and  to  Paris,  where  she  selected 
those  gowns  that  on  and  off  the  stage  helped  to 
make  her  famous.  But  this  particular  summer 
she  had  spent  with  the  Endicotts  at  Bar  Har 
bor,  and  it  was  at  their  house  Herbert  Nelson 
met  her.  After  Herbert  met  her  very  few 
other  men  enjoyed  that  privilege.  This  was 
her  wish  as  well  as  his. 

They  behaved  disgracefully.  Every  morning 
after  breakfast  they  disappeared  and  spent  the 
day  at  opposite  ends  of  a  canoe.  She,  knowing 
nothing  of  a  canoe,  was  happy  in  stabbing  the 
waters  with  her  paddle  while  he  told  her  how 
he  loved  her  and  at  the  same  time,  with  anxious 
eyes  on  his  own  paddle,  skilfully  frustrated  her 
efforts  to  drown  them  both.  While  the  affair 
lasted  it  was  ideal  and  beautiful,  but  unfortu 
nately  it  lasted  only  two  months. 

Then  Lord  Albany,  temporarily  in  America 
as  honorary  attache  to  the  British  embassy,  his 
adoring  glances,  his  accent,  and  the  way  he 
brushed  his  hair,  proved  too  much  for  the  sus- 

61 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

ceptible  heart  of  Aline,  and  she  chucked  Her 
bert  and  asked  herself  how  a  woman  of  her  age 
could  have  seriously  considered  marrying  a 
youth  just  out  of  Harvard !  At  that  time  she 
was  a  woman  of  nineteen;  but,  as  she  had  been 
before  the  public  ever  since  she  was  eleven,  the 
women  declared  she  was  not  a  day  under 
twenty-six;  and  the  men  knew  she  could  not 
possibly  be  over  sixteen ! 

Aline's  own  idea  of  herself  was  that  without 
some  one  in  love  with  her  she  could  not  exist- 
that,  unless  she  knew  some  man  cared  for  her 
and  for  her  alone,  she  would  wither  and  die. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  whether  any  one  loved  her 
or  not  did  not  in  the  least  interest  her.  There 
were  several  dozen  men  who  could  testify  to 
that.  They  knew !  What  she  really  wanted 
was  to  be  head  over  ears  in  love — to  adore  some 
one,  to  worship  him,  to  imagine  herself  starving 
for  him  and  making  sacrifice  hits  for  him;  but 
when  the  moment  came  to  make  the  sacrifice 
hit  and  marry  the  man,  she  invariably  found 
that  a  greater,  truer  love  had  arisen — for  some 
one  else. 

This  greater  and  truer  love  always  made  her 
behave  abominably  to  the  youth  she  had  just 
jilted.  She  wasted  no  time  on  post-mortems. 
She  was  so  eager  to  show  her  absolute  loyalty 
to  the  new  monarch  that  she  grudged  every 

62 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

thought  she  ever  had  given  the  one  she  had  cast 
into  exile.  She  resented  him  bitterly.  She 
could  not  forgive  him  for  having  allowed  her 
to  be  desperately  in  love  with  him.  He  should 
have  known  he  was  not  worthy  of  such  a  love 
as  hers.  He  should  have  known  that  the  real 
prince  was  waiting  only  just  round  the  corner. 

As  a  rule  the  rejected  ones  behaved  well. 
Each  decided  Aline  was  much  too  wonderful  a 
creature  for  him,  and  continued  to  love  her 
cautiously  and  from  a  distance.  None  of  them 
ever  spoke  or  thought  ill  of  her  and  would  gladly 
have  punched  any  one  who  did.  It  was  only 
the  women  whose  young  men  Aline  had  tempo 
rarily  confiscated,  and  then  returned  saddened 
and  chastened,  who  were  spiteful.  And  they 
dared  say  no  more  than  that  Aline  would  prob 
ably  have  known  her  mind  better  if  she  had 
had  a  mother  to  look  after  her.  This,  coming 
to  the  ears  of  Aline,  caused  her  to  reply  that  a 
girl  who  could  not  keep  straight  herself,  but 
needed  a  mother  to  help  her,  would  not  keep 
straight  had  she  a  dozen  mothers.  As  she  put 
it  cheerfully,  a  girl  who  goes  wrong  and  then 
pleads  "no  mother  to  guide  her"  is  like  a  jockey 
who  pulls  a  race  and  then  blames  the  horse. 

Each  of  the  young  men  Aline  rejected  mar 
ried  some  one  else  and,  except  when  the  name 
of  Aline  Proctor  in  the  theatrical  advertisements 

63 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO  EVIL  THINKS 

or  in  electric  lights  on  Broadway  gave  him  a 
start,  forgot  that  for  a  month  her  name  and  his 
own  had  been  linked  together  from  Portland 
to  San  Francisco.  But  the  girl  he  married  did 
not  forget.  She  never  understood  what  the 
public  saw  in  Aline  Proctor.  That  Aline  was 
the  queen  of  musical  comedy  she  attributed  to 
the  fact  that  Aline  knew  the  right  people  and 
got  herself  written  about  in  the  right  way. 
But  that  she  could  sing,  dance,  act;  that  she 
possessed  compelling  charm;  that  she  "got 
across"  not  only  to  the  tired  business  man, 
the  wine  agent,  the  college  boy,  but  also  to  the 
children  and  the  old  ladies,  was  to  her  never 
apparent. 

Just  as  Aline  could  not  forgive  the  rejected 
suitor  for  allowing  her  to  love  him,  so  the  girl 
he  married  never  forgave  Aline  for  having  loved 
her  husband.  Least  of  all  could  Sally  Win- 
throp,  who  two  years  after  the  summer  at  Bar 
Harbor  married  Herbert  Nelson,  forgive  her. 
And  she  let  Herbert  know  it.  Herbert  was 
properly  in  love  with  Sally  Winthrop,  but  he 
liked  to  think  that  his  engagement  to  Aline, 
though  brief  and  abruptly  terminated,  had 
proved  him  to  be  a  man  fatally  attractive  to 
all  women.  And  though  he  was  hypnotizing 
himself  into  believing  that  his  feeling  for  Aline 
had  been  the  grand  passion,  the  truth  was  that 

64 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

all  that  kept  her  in  his  thoughts  was  his  own 
vanity.  He  was  not  discontented  with  his  lot 
— his  lot  being  Sally  Winthrop,  her  millions, 
and  her  estate  of  three  hundred  acres  near 
Westbury.  Nor  was  he  still  longing  for  Aline. 
It  was  only  that  his  vanity  was  flattered  by  the 
recollection  that  one  of  the  young  women  most 
beloved  by  the  public  had  once  loved  him. 

"I  once  was  a  king  in  Babylon,"  he  used  to 
misquote  to  himself,  "and  she  was  a  Christian 
slave." 

He  was  as  young  as  that. 

Had  he  been  content  in  secret  to  assure  him 
self  that  he  once  had  been  a  reigning  monarch, 
his  vanity  would  have  harmed  no  one;  but,  un 
fortunately,  he  possessed  certain  documentary 
evidence  to  that  fact.  And  he  was  sufficiently 
foolish  not  to  wish  to  destroy  it.  The  evidence 
consisted  of  a  dozen  photographs  he  had 
snapped  of  Aline  during  the  happy  days  at 
Bar  Harbor,  and  on  which  she  had  written 
phrases  somewhat  exuberant  and  sentimental. 

From  these  photographs  Nelson  was  loath  to 
part — especially  with  one  that  showed  Aline 
seated  on  a  rock  that  ran  into  the  waters  of  the 
harbor,  and  on  which  she  had  written:  "As  long 
as  this  rock  lasts !"  Each  time  she  was  in  love 
Aline  believed  it  would  last.  That  in  the  past 
it  never  had  lasted  did  not  discourage  her. 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO  EVIL  THINKS 

What  to  do  with  these  photographs  that  so 
vividly  recalled  the  most  tumultuous  period  of 
his  life  Nelson  could  not  decide.  If  he  hid 
them  away  and  Sally  found  them,  he  knew  she 
would  make  his  life  miserable.  If  he  died  and 
Sally  then  found  them,  when  he  no  longer  was 
able  to  explain  that  they  meant  nothing  to  him, 
she  would  believe  he  always  had  loved  the 
other  woman,  and  it  would  make  her  miserable. 
He  felt  he  could  not  safely  keep  them  in  his 
own  house;  his  vanity  did  not  permit  him  to 
burn  them,  and,  accordingly,  he  decided  to 
unload  them  on  some  one  else. 

The  young  man  to  whom  he  confided  his  col 
lection  was  Charles  Cochran.  Cochran  was  a 
charming  person  from  the  West.  He  had 
studied  in  the  Beaux  Arts  and  on  foot  had  trav 
elled  over  England  and  Europe,  preparing  him 
self  to  try  his  fortune  in  New  York  as  an  archi 
tect.  He  was  now  in  the  office  of  the  archi 
tects  Post  &  Constant,  and  lived  alone  in  a 
tiny  farmhouse  he  had  made  over  for  him 
self  near  Herbert  Nelson,  at  Westbury,  Long 
Island. 

Post  &  Constant  were  a  fashionable  firm  and 
were  responsible  for  many  of  the  French  cha 
teaux  and  English  country  houses  that  were 
rising  near  Westbury,  Hempstead,  and  Roslyn; 
and  it  was  Cochran's  duty  to  drive  over  that 

66  ' 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

territory  in  his  runabout,  keep  an  eye  on  the 
contractors,  and  dissuade  clients  from  grafting 
mansard  roofs  on  Italian  villas.  He  had  built 
the  summer  home  of  the  Herbert  Nelsons,  and 
Herbert  and  Charles  were  very  warm  friends. 
Charles  was  of  the  same  lack  of  years  as  was 
Herbert,  of  an  enthusiastic  and  sentimental 
nature;  and,  like  many  other  young  men,  the 
story  of  his  life  also  was  the  lovely  and  much- 
desired  Aline  Proctor.  It  was  this  coincidence 
that  had  made  them  friends  and  that  had  led 
Herbert  to  select  Charles  as  the  custodian  of 
his  treasure.  As  a  custodian  and  confidant 
Charles  especially  appealed  to  his  new  friend, 
because,  except  upon  the  stage  and  in  restau 
rants,  Charles  had  never  seen  Aline  Proctor, 
did  not  know  her — and  considered  her  so  far 
above  him,  so  unattainable,  that  he  had  no  wish 
to  seek  her  out.  Unknown,  he  preferred  to 
worship  at  a  distance.  In  this  determination 
Herbert  strongly  encouraged  him. 

When  he  turned  over  the  pictures  to  Charles, 
Herbert  could  not  resist  showing  them  to  him. 
They  were  in  many  ways  charming.  They  pre 
sented  the  queen  of  musical  comedy  in  several 
new  roles.  In  one  she  was  in  a  sailor  suit,  giv 
ing  an  imitation  of  a  girl  paddling  a  canoe.  In 
another  she  was  in  a  riding-habit  mounted  upon 
a  pony  of  which  she  seemed  very  much  afraid. 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO  EVIL  THINKS 

In  some  she  sat  like  a  siren  among  the  rocks 
with  the  waves  and  seaweed  snatching  at  her 
feet,  and  in  another  she  crouched  beneath  the 
wheel  of  Herbert's  touring  car.  All  of  the 
photographs  were  unprofessional  and  intimate, 
and  the  legends  scrawled  across  them  were  even 
more  intimate. 

"As  long  as  this  rock  lasts!'"  read  Herbert. 
At  arm's  length  he  held  the  picture  for  Cochran 
to  see,  and  laughed  bitterly  and  unmirthfully 
as  he  had  heard  leading  men  laugh  in  problem 
plays. 

"That  is  what  she  wrote,"  he  mocked — "but 
how  long  did  it  last?  Until  she  saw  that  little 
red-headed  Albany  playing  polo.  That  lasted 
until  his  mother  heard  of  it.  She  thought  her 
precious  Iamb  was  in  the  clutches  of  a  designing 
actress,  and  made  the  Foreign  Office  cable  him 
home.  Then  Aline  took  up  one  of  those  army 
aviators,  and  chucked  him  for  that  fellow  who 
painted  her  portrait,  and  threw  him  over  for 
the  lawn-tennis  champion.  Now  she's  engaged 
to  Chester  Griswold,  and  Heaven  pity  her !  Of 
course  he's  the  greatest  catch  in  America;  but 
he's  a  prig  and  a  snob,  and  he's  so  generous  with 
his  money  that  he'll  give  you  five  pennies  for  a 
nickel  any  time  you  ask  him.  He's  got  a  heart 
like  the  metre  of  a  taxicab,  and  he's  jealous  as 
a  cat.  Aline  will  have  a  fine  time  with  Chester ! 

68 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

I  knew  him  at  St.  Paul's  and  at  Harvard,  and 
he's  got  as  much  red  blood  in  him  as  an  eel !" 

Cochran  sprang  to  the  defense  of  the  lady  of 
his  dreams. 

"There  must  be  some  good  in  the  man,"  he 
protested,  "or  Miss  Proctor " 

"Oh,  those  solemn  snobs,"  declared  Herbert, 
"impress  women  by  just  keeping  still.  Gris- 
wold  pretends  the  reason  he  doesn't  speak  to 
you  is  because  he's  too  superior,  but  the  rea! 
reason  is  that  he  knows  whenever  he  opens  his 
mouth  he  shows  he  is  an  ass." 

Reluctantly  Herbert  turned  over  to  Charles 
the  precious  pictures.  "It  would  be  a  sin  to 
destroy  them,  wouldn't  it?"  he  prompted. 

Cochran  agreed  heartily. 

"You  might  even,"  suggested  Herbert,  "leave 
one  or  two  of  them  about.  You  have  so  many 
of  Aline  already  that  one  more  wouldn't  be 
noticed.  Then  when  I  drop  in  I  could  see  it." 
He  smiled  ingratiatingly. 

"But  those  I  have  I  bought,"  Cochran  point 
ed  out.  "Anybody  can  buy  them,  but  yours 
are  personal.  And  they're  signed." 

"No  one  will  notice  that  but  me,"  protested 
Herbert.  "Just  one  or  two,"  he  coaxed — 
"stuck  round  among  the  others.  They'd  give 
me  a  heap  of  melancholy  pleasure." 

Charles  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

60 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

"Your  wife  often  comes  here  with  you,"  he 
said.  "I  don't  believe  they'd  give  her  melan 
choly  pleasure.  The  question  is,  are  you  mar 
ried  to  Sally  or  to  Aline  Proctor?" 

"Oh,  of  course,"  exclaimed  Herbert — "if  you 
refuse !" 

With  suspicious  haste  Charles  surrendered. 

"I  don't  refuse,"  he  explained;  "I  only  ask  if 
it's  wise.  Sally  knows  you  were  once  very  fond 
of  Miss  Proctor — knows  you  were  engaged  to 
her." 

"But,"  protested  Herbert,  "Sally  sees  your 
photographs  of  Aline.  What  difference  can  a 
few  more  make?  After  she's  seen  a  dozen  she 
gets  used  to  them." 

No  sooner  had  Herbert  left  him  than  the  cus 
todian  of  the  treasure  himself  selected  the  pho 
tographs  he  would  display.  In  them  the  young 
woman  he  had — from  the  front  row  of  the 
orchestra — so  ardently  admired  appeared  in  a 
new  light.  To  Cochran  they  seemed  at  once  to 
render  her  more  kindly,  more  approachable;  to 
show  her  as  she  really  was,  the  sort  of  girl  any 
youth  would  find  it  extremely  difficult  not  to 
love.  Cochran  found  it  extremely  easy.  The 
photographs  gave  his  imagination  all  the  room 
it  wanted.  He  believed  they  also  gave  him  an 
insight  into  her  real  character  that  was  denied 
to  anybody  else.  He  had  always  credited  her 

70 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO  EVIL  THINKS 

with  all  the  virtues;  he  now  endowed  her  with 
every  charm  of  mind  and  body.  In  a  week  to 
the  two  photographs  he  had  selected  from  the 
loan  collection  for  purposes  of  display  and  to 
give  Herbert  melancholy  pleasure  he  had  added 
three  more.  In  two  weeks  there  were  half  a 
dozen.  In  a  month,  nobly  framed  in  silver,  in 
leather  of  red,  green,  and  blue,  the  entire  collec 
tion  smiled  upon  him  from  every  part  of  his 
bedroom.  For  he  now  kept  them  where  no 
one  but  himself  could  see  them.  No  longer 
was  he  of  a  mind  to  share  his  borrowed  trea- 
ure  with  others — not  even  with  the  rightful 
owner. 

Chester  Griswold,  spurred  on  by  Aline  Proc 
tor,  who  wanted  to  build  a  summer  home  on 
Long  Island,  was  motoring  with  Post,  of  Post 
&  Constant,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Westbury. 
Post  had  pointed  out  several  houses  designed 
by  his  firm,  which  he  hoped  might  assist  Gris 
wold  in  making  up  his  mind  as  to  the  kind  of 
house  he  wanted;  but  none  they  had  seen  had 
satisfied  his  client. 

"What  I  want  is  a  cheap  house,"  explained 
the  young  millionaire.  "I  don't  really  want  a 
house  at  all,"  he  complained.  "It's  Miss  Proc 
tor's  idea.  When  we  are  married  I  intend  to 
move  into  my  mother's  town  house,  but  Miss 
Proctor  wants  one  for  herself  in  the  country. 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

Pve  agreed  to  that;  but  it  must  be  small  and 
it  must  be  cheap." 

"Cheap"  was  a  word  that  the  clients  of  Post 
&  Constant  never  used;  but  Post  knew  the 
weaknesses  of  some  of  the  truly  rich,  and  he 
knew  also  that  no  house  ever  built  cost  only 
what  the  architect  said  it  would  cost. 

"I  know  the  very  house  you  want!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "One  of  our  young  men  owns  it. 
He  made  it  over  from  an  old  farmhouse.  It's 
very  well  arranged;  weVe  used  his  ground-plan 
several  times  and  it  works  out  splendidly.  If 
he's  not  at  home,  I'll  show  you  over  the  place 
myself.  And  if  you  like  the  house  he's  the  man 
to  build  you  one." 

When  they  reached  Cochran's  home  he  was 
at  Garden  City  playing  golf,  but  the  servant 
knew  Mr.  Post,  and  to  him  and  his  client  threw 
open  every  room  in  the  house. 

"Now,  this,"  exclaimed  the  architect  enthu 
siastically,  "is  the  master's  bedroom.  In  your 
case  it  would  probably  be  your  wife's  room  and 
you  would  occupy  the  one  adjoining,  which 
Cochran  now  uses  as  a  guest-room.  As  you 
see,  they  are  entirely  cut  off  from " 

Mr.  Griswold  did  not  see.  Up  to  that  mo 
ment  he  had  given  every  appearance  of  being 
both  bored  and  sulky.  Now  his  attention  was 
entirely  engaged — but  not  upon  the  admirable 

72 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

simplicity  of  Mr.  Cochran's  ground-plan,  as 
Mr.  Post  had  hoped.  Instead,  the  eyes  of  the 
greatest  catch  in  America  were  intently  regard 
ing  a  display  of  photographs  that  smiled  back 
at  him  from  every  corner  of  the  room.  Not 
only  did  he  regard  these  photographs  with  a 
savage  glare,  but  he  approached  them  and  care 
fully  studied  the  inscriptions  scrawled  across 
the  face  of  each. 

Post  himself  cast  a  glance  at  the  nearest  pho 
tographs,  and  then  hastily  manoeuvred  his  client 
into  the  hall  and  closed  the  door. 

"We  will  now,"  he  exclaimed,  "visit  the  but 
ler's  pantry,  which  opens  upon  the  dining-room 
and  kitchen,  thus  saving " 

But  Griswold  did  not  hear  him.  Without 
giving  another  glance  at  the  house  he  stamped 
out  of  it  and,  plumping  himself  down  in  the 
motor-car,  banged  the  door.  Not  until  Post 
had  driven  him  well  into  New  York  did  he  make 
any  comment. 

"What  did  you  say,"  he  then  demanded,  "is 
the  name  of  the  man  who  owns  that  last  house 
we  saw?" 

Post  told  him. 

"I  never  heard  of  him!"  said  Griswold  as 
though  he  were  delivering  young  Cochran's 
death  sentence.  "Who  is  he?" 

"He's  an  architect  in  our  office,"  said  Post. 
73 


EVIL  TO  HIM   WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

"We  think  a  lot  of  him.  He'll  leave  us  soon, 
of  course.  The  best  ones  always  do.  His  work 
is  very  popular.  So  is  he." 

"I  never  heard  of  him,"  repeated  Griswold. 
Then,  with  sudden  heat,  he  added  savagely: 
"But  I  mean  to  to-night." 

When  Griswold  had  first  persuaded  Aline 
Proctor  to  engage  herself  to  him  he  had  sug 
gested  that,  to  avoid  embarrassment,  she  should 
tell  him  the  names  of  the  other  men  to  whom 
she  had  been  engaged. 

"What  kind  of  embarrassment  would  that 
avoid?" 

"If  I  am  talking  to  a  man,"  said  Griswold, 
"and  he  knows  the  woman  I'm  going  to  marry 
was  engaged  to  him  and  I  don't  know  that,  he 
has  me  at  a  disadvantage." 

"I  don't  see  that  he  has,"  said  Aline.  "If 
we  suppose,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  that  to 
marry  me  is  desirable,  I  would  say  that  the 
man  who  was  going  to  marry  me  had  the  ad 
vantage  over  the  one  I  had  declined  to  marry." 

"I  want  to  know  who  those  men  are,"  ex 
plained  Griswold,  "because  I  want  to  avoid 
them.  I  don't  want  to  talk  to  them.  I  don't 
want  even  to  know  them." 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can  help  you,"  said  Aline. 
"  I  haven't  the  slightest  objection  to  telling  you 
the  names  of  the  men  I  have  cared  for,  if  I  can 

74 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

remember  them,  but  I  certainly  do  not  intend 
to  tell  you  the  name  of  any  man  who  cared  for 
me  enough  to  ask  me  to  marry  him.  That's 
his  secret,  not  mine — certainly  not  yours.*' 

Griswold  thought  he  was  very  proud.  He 
really  was  very  vain;  and  as  jealousy  is  only 
vanity  in  its  nastiest  development  he  was  ex 
tremely  jealous.  So  he  persisted. 

"Will  you  do  this?"  he  demanded.  "If  I 
ever  ask  you,  *  Is  that  one  of  the  men  you  cared 
for?'  will  you  tell  me?" 

"If  you  wish  it,"  said  Aline;  "but  I  can't  see 
any  health  in  it.  It  will  only  make  you  un 
comfortable.  So  long  as  you  know  I  have 
given  you  the  greatest  and  truest  love  I  am 
capable  of,  why  should  you  concern  yourself 
with  my  mistakes?" 

"So  that  I  can  avoid  meeting  what  you 
call  your  mistakes,"  said  Griswold — "and  being 
friendly  with  them." 

"I  assure  you,"  laughed  Aline,  "it  wouldn't 
hurt  you  a  bit  to  be  as  friendly  with  them  as 
they'd  let  you.  Maybe  they  weren't  as  proud 
of  their  families  as  you  are,  but  they  made 
up  for  that  by  being  a  darned  sight  prouder  of 
me!" 

Later,  undismayed  by  this  and  unashamed, 
on  two  occasions  Griswold  actually  did  demand 
of  Aline  if  a  genial  youth  she  had  just  greeted 

75 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

joyfully  was  one  of  those  for  whom  she  once 
had  cared. 

And  Aline  had  replied  promptly  and  truth 
fully  that  he  was.  But  in  the  case  of  Charles 
Cochran,  Griswold  did  not  ask  Aline  if  he  was 
one  of  those  for  whom  she  once  had  cared. 
He  considered  the  affair  with  Cochran  so  serious 
that,  in  regard  to  that  man,  he  adopted  a  differ 
ent  course. 

In  digging  rivals  out  of  the  past  his  jealousy 
had  made  him  indefatigable,  but  in  all  his 
researches  he  never  had  heard  the  name  of 
Charles  Cochran.  That  fact  and  the  added 
circumstance  that  Aline  herself  never  had  men 
tioned  the  man  was  in  his  eyes  so  suspicious  as 
to  be  almost  a  damning  evidence  of  deception. 
And  he  argued  that  if  in  the  past  Aline  had 
deceived  him  as  to  Charles  Cochran  she  would 
continue  to  do  so.  Accordingly,  instead  of  ask 
ing  her  frankly  for  the  truth  he  proceeded  to 
lay  traps  for  it.  And  if  there  is  one  thing 
Truth  cannot  abide,  it  is  being  hunted  by 
traps. 

That  evening  Aline  and  he  were  invited  to  a 
supper  in  her  honor,  and  as  he  drove  her  from 
the  theatre  to  the  home  of  their  hostess  he  told 
her  of  his  search  earlier  in  the  day. 

The  electric  light  in  the  limousine  showed 
Aline's  face  as  clearly  as  though  it  were  held  in 

76 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO  EVIL  THINKS 

a  spotlight,  and  as  he  prepared  his  trap  Gris- 
wold  regarded  her  jealously. 

"Post  tells  me,"  he  said,  "he  has  the  very 
man  you  want  for  your  architect.  He's  sure 
you'll  find  him  most  understanding  and — and — 
sympathetic.  He's  a  young  man  who  is  just 
coming  to  the  front,  and  he's  very  popular, 
especially  with  women." 

**  What's  his  being  popular  with  women," 
asked  Aline,  "got  to  do  with  his  carrying  out 
my  ideas  of  a  house?" 

"That's  just  it,"  said  Griswold— " it's  the 
woman  who  generally  has  the  most  to  say  as  to 
how  her  house  shall  be  built,  and  this  man 
understands  woman.  I  have  reasons  for  be 
lieving  he  will  certainly  understand  you !" 

"If  he  understands  me  well  enough  to  give 
me  all  the  linen-closets  I  want,"  said  Aline, 
"he  will  be  perfectly  satisfactory." 

Before  delivering  his  blow  Griswold  sank  back 
into  his  corner  of  the  car,  drew  his  hat  brim 
over  his  forehead,  and  fixed  spying  eyes  upon 
the  very  lovely  face  of  the  girl  he  had  asked  to 
marry  him. 

"His  name,"  he  said  in  fateful  tones,  "is 
Charles  Cochran!" 

It  was  supposed  to  be  a  body  blow;  but,  to 
his  distress,  Aline  neither  started  nor  turned 
pale.  Neither,  for  trying  to  trick  her,  did  she 

77 


EVIL  TO  HIM   WHO  EVIL  THINKS 

turn  upon  him  in  reproof  and  anger.  Instead, 
with  alert  eyes,  she  continued  to  peer  out  of 
the  window  at  the  electric-light  advertisements 
and  her  beloved  Broadway. 

"Well?"  demanded  Griswold;  his  tone  was 
hoarse  and  heavy  with  meaning. 

"Well  what?"  asked  Aline  pleasantly. 

"How,"  demanded  Griswold,  "do  you  like 
Charles  Cochran  for  an  architect?" 

"How  should  I  know?"  asked  Aline.  "I've 
not  met  him  yet!" 

She  had  said  it !  And  she  had  said  it  without 
the  waver  of  one  of  her  lovely  eyelashes.  No 
wonder  the  public  already  hailed  her  as  a 
finished  actress !  Griswold  felt  that  his  worst 
fears  were  justified.  She  had  lied  to  him. 
And,  as  he  knew  she  had  never  before  lied  to 
him,  that  now  she  did  so  proved  beyond  hope 
of  doubt  that  the  reason  for  it  was  vital,  im 
perative,  and  compelling.  But  of  his  suspicions 
Griswold  gave  no  sign.  He  would  not  at  once 
expose  her.  He  had  trapped  her,  but  as  yet 
she  must  not  know  that.  He  would  wait  until 
he  had  still  further  entangled  her — until  she 
could  not  escape;  and  then,  with  complete  proof 
of  her  deceit,  he  would  confront  and  overwhelm 
her. 

With  this  amiable  purpose  in  mind  he  called 
early  the  next  morning  upon  Post  &  Constant 
and  asked  to  see  Mr.  Cochran.  He  wished,  he 

78 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

said,  to  consult  him  about  the  new  house. 
Post  had  not  yet  reached  the  office,  and  of 
Griswold's  visit  with  Post  to  his  house  Cochran 
was  still  ignorant.  He  received  Griswold  most 
courteously.  He  felt  that  the  man  who  was 
loved  by  the  girl  he  also  had  long  and  hopelessly 
worshipped  was  deserving  of  the  highest  con 
sideration.  Griswold  was  less  magnanimous. 
When  he  found  his  rival — for  as  such  he  beheld 
him — was  of  charming  manners  and  gallant 
appearance  he  considered  that  fact  an  additional 
injury;  but  he  concealed  his  resentment,  for 
he  was  going  to  trap  Cochran,  too. 

He  found  the  architect  at  work  leaning  over 
a  drawing-board,  and  as  they  talked  Cochran 
continued  to  stand.  He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
which  were  rolled  to  his  shoulders;  and  the 
breadth  of  those  shoulders  and  the  muscles  of 
his  sunburned  arms  were  much  in  evidence. 
Griswold  considered  it  a  vulgar  exhibition. 

For  over  ten  minutes  they  talked  solely  of 
the  proposed  house,  but  not  once  did  Griswold 
expose  the  fact  that  he  had  seen  any  more  of 
it  than  any  one  might  see  from  the  public  road. 
When  he  rose  to  take  his  leave  he  said: 

"How  would  it  do  if  I  motored  out  Sunday 
and  showed  your  house  to  Miss  Proctor? 
Sunday  is  the  only  day  she  has  off,  and  if  it 
would  not  inconvenience  you " 

The  tender  heart  of  Cochran  leaped  in  wild 
79 


EVIL  TO  HIM   WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

tumult;  he  could  not  conceal  his  delight,  nor 
did  he  attempt  to  do  so;  and  his  expression 
made  it  entirely  unnecessary  for  him  to  assure 
Griswold  that  such  a  visit  would  be  entirely 
welcome  and  that  they  might  count  on  finding 
him  at  home.  As  though  it  were  an  after 
thought,  Griswold  halted  at  the  door  and  said: 

"I  believe  you  are  already  acquainted  with 
Miss  Proctor." 

Cochran,  conscious  of  five  years  of  devotion, 
found  that  he  was  blushing,  and  longed  to 
strangle  himself.  Nor  was  the  blush  lost  upon 
Griswold. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Cochran,  "but  I've  not 
had  that  honor.  On  the  stage,  of  course " 

He  shrugged  the  broad  shoulders  deprecat- 
ingly,  as  though  to  suggest  that  not  to  know 
Miss  Proctor  as  an  artist  argues  oneself  un 
known. 

Griswold  pretended  to  be  puzzled.  As  though 
endeavoring  to  recall  a  past  conversation  he 
frowned. 

"But  Aline,"  he  said,  "told  me  she  had  met 
you — met  you  at  Bar  Harbor."  In  the  fatal 
photographs  the  familiar  landfalls  of  Bar  Har 
bor  had  been  easily  recognized. 

The  young  architect  shook  his  head. 

"  It  must  be  another  Cochran,"  he  suggested. 
"I  have  never  been  in  Bar  Harbor." 

80 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

With  the  evidence  of  the  photographs  before 
him  this  last  statement  was  a  verdict  of  guilty, 
and  Griswold,  not  with  the  idea  of  giving  Coch- 
ran  a  last  chance  to  be  honest,  but  to  cause 
him  to  dig  the  pit  still  deeper,  continued  to  lead 
him  on.  "Maybe  she  meant  York  Harbor?" 

Again  Cochran  shook  his  head  and  laughed. 

"Believe  me/'  he  said,  "if  Fd  ever  met  Miss 
Proctor  anywhere  I  wouldn't  forget  it!" 

Ten  minutes  later  Griswold  was  talking  to 
Aline  over  the  telephone.  He  intended  to  force 
matters.  He  would  show  Aline  she  could 
neither  trifle  with  nor  deceive  Chester  Griswold ; 
but  the  thought  that  he  had  been  deceived  was 
not  what  most  hurt  him.  What  hurt  him  was 
to  think  that  Aline  had  preferred  a  man  who 
looked  like  an  advertisement  for  ready-made 
clothes  and  who  worked  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 

Griswold  took  it  for  granted  that  any  woman 
would  be  glad  to  marry  him.  So  many  had 
been  willing  to  do  so  that  he  was  convinced, 
when  one  of  them  was  not,  it  was  not  because 
there  was  anything  wrong  with  him,  but  because 
the  girl  herself  lacked  taste  and  perception. 

That  the  others  had  been  in  any  degree 
moved  by  his  many  millions  had  never  sug 
gested  itself.  He  was  convinced  each  had  loved 
him  for  himself  alone;  and  if  Aline,  after  meet 
ing  him,  would  still  consider  any  one  else,  it 

81 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO  EVIL  THINKS 

was  evident  something  was  very  wrong  with 
Aline.  He  was  determined  that  she  must  be 
chastened — must  be  brought  to  a  proper  appre 
ciation  of  her  good  fortune  and  of  his  conde 
scension. 

On  being  called  to  the  telephone  at  ten  in  the 
morning,  Aline  demanded  to  know  what  could 
excuse  Griswold  for  rousing  her  in  the  middle  of 
the  night ! 

Griswold  replied  that,  though  the  day  was 
young,  it  also  was  charming;  that  on  Sunday 
there  might  be  rain;  and  that  if  she  desired  to 
see  the  house  he  and  Post  thought  would  most 
suit  her,  he  and  his  car  would  be  delighted  to 
convey  her  to  it.  They  could  make  the  run  in 
an  hour,  lunch  with  friends  at  Westbury,  and 
return  in  plenty  of  time  for  the  theatre.  Aline 
was  delighted  at  the  sudden  interest  Griswold 
was  showing  in  the  new  house.  Without  a 
moment's  hesitation  she  walked  into  the  trap. 
She  would  go,  she  declared,  with  pleasure.  In 
an  hour  he  should  call  for  her. 

Exactly  an  hour  later  Post  arrived  at  his 
office.  He  went  directly  to  Cochran. 

"Charles,"  he  said,  "I'm  afraid  I  got  you 
into  trouble  yesterday.  I  took  a  client  to  see 
your  house.  You  have  often  let  us  do  it  before; 
but  since  I  was  there  last  you've  made  some 
changes.  In  your  bedroom — "  Post  stopped. 

82 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

Cochran's  naive  habit  of  blushing  told  him  it 
was  not  necessary  to  proceed.  In  tones  of  rage 
and  mortification  Cochran  swore  explosively; 
Post  was  relieved  to  find  he  was  swearing  at 
himself. 

"I  ought  to  be  horsewhipped!"  roared  Coch 
ran.  "I'll  never  forgive  myself!  Who,"  he 
demanded,  "saw  the  pictures?  Was  it  a  man 
or  a  woman?" 

Post  laughed  unhappily. 

"  It  was  Chester  Griswold." 

A  remarkable  change  came  over  Cochran. 
Instead  of  sobering  him,  as  Post  supposed  it 
would,  the  information  made  him  even  more 
angry — only  now  his  anger  was  transferred  from 
himself  to  Griswold. 

"The  blankety-blank  bounder!"  yelled  Coch 
ran.  "That  was  what  he  wanted!  That's 
why  he  came  here!" 

"Here!"  demanded  Post. 

"Not  an  hour  ago,"  cried  Cochran.  "He 
asked  me  about  Bar  Harbor.  He  saw  those 
pictures  were  taken  at  Bar  Harbor!" 

"I  think,"  said  Post  soothingly,  "he'd  a 
right  to  ask  questions.  There  were  so  many 
pictures,  and  they  were  very — well — very!" 

"I'd  have  answered  his  questions,"  roared 
Cochran,  "if  he'd  asked  them  like  a  man,  but 
he  came  snooping  down  here  to  spy  on  me. 

83 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

He  tried  to  trick  me.  He  insulted  me!  He 
insulted  her!"  He  emitted  a  howl  of  dismay. 
"And  I  told  him  I'd  never  been  to  Bar  Harbor 
— that  I'd  never  met  Aline  Proctor!" 

Cochran  seized  his  coat  and  hat.  He  shouted 
to  one  of  the  office  boys  to  telephone  the  garage 
for  his  car. 

"What  are  you — where  are  you  going?"  de 
manded  Post. 

"I'm  going  home  first,"  cried  Cochran,  "to 
put  those  pictures  in  a  safe,  as  I  should  have 
done  three  months  ago.  And  then  I'm  going 
to  find  Chester  Griswold  and  tell  him  he's  an 
ass  and  a  puppy !" 

"If  you  do  that,"  protested  Post,  "you're 
likely  to  lose  us  a  very  valuable  client." 

"And  your  client,"  roared  Charles,  "is  likely 
to  lose  some  very  valuable  teeth !" 

As  Charles  whirled  into  the  country  road  in 
which  stood  his  house  he  saw  drawn  up  in  front 
of  h  the  long  gray  car  in  which,  that  morning, 
Chester  Griswold  had  called  at  the  office. 
Cochran  emitted  a  howl  of  anger.  Was  his 
home  again  to  be  invaded?  And  again  while 
he  was  absent?  To  what  extreme  would  Gris- 
wold's  jealousy  next  lead  him?  He  fell  out  of 
his  own  car  while  it  still  moved,  and  leaped  up 
the  garden  walk.  The  front  rooms  of  the  house 
were  empty,  but  from  his  bedroom  he  heard, 

84 


EVIL  TO  HIM   WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

raised  in  excited  tones,  the  voice  of  Griswold. 
The  audacity  of  the  man  was  so  surprising,  and 
his  own  delight  at  catching  him  red-handed  so 
satisfying,  that  no  longer  was  Cochran  angry. 
The  Lord  had  delivered  his  enemy  into  his 
hands !  And,  as  he  advanced  toward  his  bed 
room,  not  only  was  he  calm,  but,  at  the  thought 
of  his  revenge,  distinctly  jubilant.  In  the  pas 
sageway  a  frightened  maid  servant,  who,  at 
his  unexpected  arrival,  was  now  even  more 
frightened,  endeavored  to  give  him  an  explana 
tion;  but  he  waved  her  hi  to  silence,  and,  strid 
ing  before  her,  entered  his  bedroom. 

He  found  confronting  him  a  tall  and  beautiful 
young  woman.  It  was  not  the  Aline  Proctor  he 
knew.  It  was  not  the  well-poised,  gracious, 
and  distinguished  beauty  he  had  seen  gliding 
among  the  tables  at  Sherry's  or  throwing  smiles 
over  the  footlights.  This  Aline  Proctor  was  a 
very  indignant  young  person,  with  flashing 
eyes,  tossing  head,  and  a  stamping  foot.  Ex 
tended  from  her  at  arm's  length,  she  held  a 
photograph  of  herself  in  a  heavy  silver  frame; 
and,  as  though  it  were  a  weapon,  she  was  bran 
dishing  it  in  the  face  of  Chester  Griswold.  As 
Cochran,  in  amazement,  halted  in  the  doorway 
she  was  exclaiming: 

"  I  told  you  I  didn't  know  Charles  Cochran  ! 
I  tell  you  so  now !  If  you  can't  believe  me " 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO  EVIL  THINKS 

Out  of  the  corner  of  her  flashing  eyes  the 
angry  lady  caught  sight  of  Cochran  in  the 
doorway.  She  turned  upon  the  intruder  as 
though  she  meant  forcibly  to  eject  him. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  demanded.  Her  man 
ner  and  tone  seemed  to  add:  "And  what  the 
deuce  are  you  doing  here?" 

Charles  answered  her  tone. 

"I  am  Charles  Cochran,"  he  said.  "I  live 
here.  This  is  my  house!" 

These  words  had  no  other  effect  upon  Miss 
Proctor  than  to  switch  her  indignation  down 
another  track.  She  now  turned  upon  Charles. 

"Then,  if  this  is  your  house,"  cried  that  an 
gry  young  person,  "why  have  you  filled  k  with 
photographs  of  me  that  belong  to  some  one 
else?" 

Charles  saw  that  his  hour  had  come.  His  sin 
had  found  him  out.  He  felt  that  to  prevaricate 
would  be  only  stupid. 

Griswold  had  tried  devious  methods — and 
look  where  his  devious  methods  had  dumped 
him !  Griswold  certainly  was  in  wrong.  Charles 
quickly  determined  to  adopt  a  course  directly 
opposite.  Griswold  had  shown  an  utter  lack  of 
confidence  in  Aline.  Charles  decided  that  he 
would  give  her  his  entire  confidence,  would 
throw  himself  upon  the  mercy  of  the  court. 

"  I  have  those  photographs  in  my  house,  Miss 
86 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

Proctor,"  he  said,  "because  I  have  admired  you 
a  long  time.  They  were  more  like  you  than 
those  I  could  buy.  Having  them  here  has 
helped  me  a  lot,  and  it  hasn't  done  you  any 
harm.  You  know  very  well  you  have  anony 
mous  admirers  all  over  this  country.  I'm  only 
one  of  them.  If  I  have  offended,  I  have  offended 
with  many,  many  thousands." 

Already  it  has  been  related  that  Cochran  was 
very  good  to  look  upon.  At  the  present  mo 
ment,  as  he  spoke  in  respectful,  even  soulful  ac 
cents,  meekly  and  penitently  proclaiming  his 
long-concealed  admiration,  Miss  Proctor  found 
her  indignation  melting  like  an  icicle  in  the  sun. 

Still,  she  did  not  hold  herself  cheaply.  She 
was  accustomed  to  such  open  flattery;  She 
would  not  at  once  capitulate. 

"But  these  pictures,"  she  protested,  "I  gave 
to  a  man  I  knew.  You  have  no  right  to  them. 
They  are  not  at  all  the  sort  of  picture  I  would 
give  to  an  utter  stranger!"  With  anxiety  the 
lovely  lady  paused  for  a  reply.  She  hoped  that 
the  reply  the  tall  young  man  with  appealing 
eyes  would  make  would  be  such  as  to  make  it 
possible  for  her  to  forgive  him. 

He  was  not  given  time  to  reply.  With  a 
mocking  snort  Griswold  interrupted.  Aline  and 
Charles  had  entirely  forgotten  him. 

"An   utter  stranger!"    mimicked   Griswold. 

87 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO   EVIL  THINKS 

"Oh,  yes;  he's  an  utter  stranger !  You're  pretty 
good  actors,  both  of  you;  but  you  can't  keep 
that  up  long,  and  you'd  better  stop  it  now." 

"Stop  what?"  asked  Miss  Proctor.  Her  tone 
was  cold  and  calm,  but  in  her  eyes  was  a  strange 
light.  It  should  have  warned  Griswold  that  he 
would  have  been  safer  under  the  bed. 

"Stop  pretending !"  cried  Griswold.  "I  won't 
have  it!" 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Miss  Proctor. 
She  spoke  in  the  same  cold  voice,  only  now  it 
had  dropped  several  degrees  nearer  freezing. 
"I  don't  think  you  understand  yourself.  You 
won't  have  what?" 

Griswold  now  was  frightened,  and  that  made 
him  reckless.  Instead  of  withdrawing  he 
plunged  deeper. 

"I  won't  have  you  two  pretending  you  don't 
know  each  other,"  he  blustered.  "I  won't 
stand  being  fooled !  If  you're  going  to  deceive 
me  before  we're  married,  what  will  you  do  after 
we're  married?" 

Charles  emitted  a  howl.  It  was  made  up  of 
disgust,  amazement,  and  rage.  Fiercely  he 
turned  upon  Miss  Proctor. 

"Let  me  have  him!"  he  begged. 

"No!"  almost  shouted  Miss  Proctor.  Her 
tone  was  no  longer  cold — it  was  volcanic.  Her 
eyes,  flashing  beautifully,  were  fixed  upon 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO  EVIL  THINKS 

Griswold.  She  made  a  gesture  as  though  to 
sweep  Charles  out  of  the  room.  "Please  go!" 
she  demanded.  "This  does  not  concern  you." 

Her  tone  was  one  not  lightly  to  be  disre 
garded.  Charles  disregarded  it. 

"It  does  concern  me,"  he  said  briskly.  "No 
body  can  insult  a  woman  in  my  house — you, 
least  of  all!"  He  turned  upon  the  greatest 
catch  in  America.  "Griswold,"  he  said,  "I 
never  met  this  lady  until  I  came  into  this  room; 
but  I  know  her,  understand  her,  value  her  bet 
ter  than  you'd  understand  her  if  you  knew  her 
a  thousand  years !" 

Griswold  allowed  him  to  go  no  farther. 

"I  know  this  much,"  he  roared:  "she  was  in 
love  with  the  man  who  took  those  photographs, 
and  that  man  was  in  love  with  her!  And 
you're  that  man !" 

"What  if  I  am!"  roared  back  Charles. 
"Men  always  have  loved  her;  men  always  will 
— because  she's  a  fine,  big,  wonderful  woman! 
You  can't  see  that,  and  you  never  will.  You 
insulted  her !  Now  I'll  give  you  time  to  apolo 
gize  for  that,  and  then  I'll  order  you  out  of 
this  house !  And  if  Miss  Proctor  is  the  sort  of 
girl  I  think  she  is,  she'll  order  you  out  of  it, 
too!" 

Both  men  swung  toward  Miss  Proctor.  Her 
eyes  were  now  smiling  excitedly.  She  first 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO  EVIL  THINKS 


turned  them  upon  Charles,  blushing  most 
comingly. 

"Miss  Proctor,"  she  said,  "hopes  she  is  the 
sort  of  girl  Mr.  Cochran  thinks  she  is."  She 
then  turned  upon  the  greatest  catch  in  America. 
"You  needn't  wait,  Chester,"  she  said,  "not 
even  to  apologize." 

Chester  Griswold,  alone  in  his  car,  was  driven 
back  to  New  York.  On  the  way  he  invented 
a  story  to  explain  why,  at  the  eleventh  hour, 
he  had  jilted  Aline  Proctor;  but  when  his 
thoughts  reverted  to  the  young  man  he  had 
seen  working  with  his  sleeves  rolled  up  he  de 
cided  it  would  be  safer  to  let  Miss  Proctor  tell 
of  the  broken  engagement  in  her  own  way. 

Charles  would  not  consent  to  drive  his  fair 
guest  back  to  New  York  until  she  had  first 
honored  him  with  her  presence  at  luncheon.  It 
was  served  for  two,  on  his  veranda,  under  the 
climbing  honeysuckles.  During  the  luncheon  he 
told  her  all. 

Miss  Proctor,  in  the  light  of  his  five  years  of 
devotion,  magnanimously  forgave  him. 

"Such  a  pretty  house!"  she  exclaimed  as 
they  drove  away  from  it.  "When  Griswold 
selected  it  for  our  honeymoon  he  showed  his 
first  appreciation  of  what  I  really  like." 

"It  is  still  at  your  service!"  said  Charles. 

Miss   Proctor's  eyes  smiled  with   a  strange 

90 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO  EVIL  THINKS 

light,  but  she  did  not  speak.  It  was  a  happy 
ride;  but  when  Charles  left  her  at  the  door  of 
her  apartment-house  he  regarded  sadly  and 
with  regret  the  bundle  of  retrieved  photographs 
that  she  carried  away. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  kindly. 

"  I'm  thinking  of  going  back  to  those  empty 
frames,"  said  Charles,  and  blushed  deeply. 
Miss  Proctor  blushed  also.  With  delighted  and 
guilty  eyes  she  hastily  scanned  the  photographs. 
Snatching  one  from  the  collection,  she  gave  it 
to  him  and  then  ran  up  the  steps. 

In  the  light  of  the  spring  sunset  the  eyes  of 
Charles  devoured  the  photograph  of  which,  at 
last,  he  was  the  rightful  owner.  On  it  was 
written:  "As  long  as  this  rock  lasts !" 

As  Charles  walked  to  his  car  his  expression 
was  distinctly  thoughtful. 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

WHEN  his  hunting  trip  in  Uganda  was  over, 
Hemingway  shipped  his  specimens  and  weapons 
direct  from  Mombasa  to  New  York,  but  he 
himself  journeyed  south  over  the  few  miles  that 
stretched  to  Zanzibar. 

On  the  outward  trip  the  steamer  had  touched 
there,  and  the  little  he  saw  of  the  place  had  so 
charmed  him  that  all  the  time  he  was  on  safari 
he  promised  himself  he  would  not  return  home 
without  revisiting  it.  On  the  morning  he  ar 
rived  he  had  called  upon  Harris,  his  consul,  to 
inquire  about  the  hotel;  and  that  evening  Har 
ris  had  returned  his  call  and  introduced  him 
at  the  club. 

One  of  the  men  there  asked  Hemingway  what 
brought  him  to  Africa,  and  when  he  answered 
simply  and  truthfully  that  he  had  come  to 
shoot  big  game,  it  was  as  though  he  had  said 
something  clever,  and  every  one  smiled.  On 
the  way  back  to  the  hotel,  as  they  felt  their 
way  through  the  narrow  slits  in  the  wall  that 
served  as  streets,  he  asked  the  consul  why 
evesy  one  had  smiled. 

The  consul  laughed  evasively. 
92 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

"It's  a  local  joke,"  he  explained.  "A  lot  of 
men  come  here  for  reasons  best  kept  to  them 
selves,  and  they  all  say  what  you  said,  that 
they've  come  to  shoot  big  game.  It's  grown  to 
be  a  polite  way  of  telling  a  man  it  is  none  of 
his  business." 

"But  I  didn't  mean  it  that  way,"  protested 
Hemingway.  "I  really  have  been  after  big 
game  for  the  last  eight  months." 

In  the  tone  one  uses  to  quiet  a  drunken  man 
or  a  child,  the  consul  answered  soothingly. 

"Of  course,"  he  assented — "of  course  you 
have."  But  to  show  he  was  not  hopelessly 
credulous,  and  to  keep  Hemingway  from  involv 
ing  himself  deeper,  he  hinted  tactfully:  "Maybe 
they  noticed  you  came  ashore  with  only  one 
steamer  trunk  and  no  gun-cases." 

"Oh,  that's  easily  explained,"  laughed  Hem 
ingway.  "My  heavy  luggage " 

The  consul  had  reached  his  house  and  his 
"boy"  was  pounding  upon  it  with  his  heavy 
staff. 

"Please  don't  explain  to  me,"  he  begged. 
"It's  quite  unnecessary.  Down  here  we're  so 
darned  glad  to  see  any  white  man  that  we  don't 
ask  anything  of  him  except  that  he  won't  hurry 
away.  We  judge  them  as  they  behave  them 
selves  here;  we  don't  care  what  they  are  at 
home  or  why  they  left  it." 

93 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

Hemingway  was  highly  amused.  To  find 
that  he,  a  respectable,  sport-loving  Hemingway 
of  Massachusetts,  should  be  mistaken  for  a 
gun-runner,  slave-dealer,  or  escaping  cashier 
greatly  delighted  him. 

"All  right !"  he  exclaimed.  "I'll  promise  not 
to  bore  you  with  my  past,  and  I  agree  to  be 
judged  by  Zanzibar  standards.  I  only  hope  I 
can  live  up  to  them,  for  I  see  I  am  going  to  like 
the  place  very  much." 

Hemingway  kept  his  promise.  He  bored  no 
one  with  confidences  as  to  his  ancestors.  Of 
his  past  he  made  a  point  never  to  speak.  He 
preferred  that  the  little  community  into  which 
he  had  dropped  should  remain  unenlightened, 
should  take  him  as  they  found  him.  Of  the 
fact  that  a  college  was  named  after  his  grand 
father  and  that  on  his  father's  railroad  he  could 
travel  through  many  States,  he  was  discreetly 
silent. 

The  men  of  Zanzibar  asked  no  questions. 
That  Hemingway  could  play  a  stiff  game  :5 
tennis,  a  stiffer  game  of  poker,  and,  on  the 
piano,  songs  from  home  was  to  them  sufficient 
recommendation.  In  a  week  he  had  become 
one  of  the  most  popular  members  of  Zanzibar 
society.  It  was  as  though  he  had  lived  there 
always.  Hemingway  found  himself  reaching 
out  to  grasp  the  warmth  of  the  place  as  a  flower 

94 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

turns  to  the  sun.  He  discovered  that  for  thirty 
years  something  in  him  had  been  cheated.  For 
thirty  years  he  had  believed  that  completely  to 
satisfy  his  soul  all  he  needed  was  the  gray  stone 
walls  and  the  gray-shingled  cabins  under  the 
gray  skies  of  New  England,  that  what  in  nature 
he  most  loved  was  the  pine  forests  and  the  fields 
of  goldenrod  on  the  rock-bound  coast  of  the 
North  Shore.  But  now,  like  a  man  escaped 
from  prison,  he  leaped  and  danced  in  the  glaring 
sunlight  of  the  equator,  he  revelled  in  the  reck 
less  generosity  of  nature,  in  the  glorious  con 
fusion  of  colors,  in  the  "blooming  blue"  of  the 
Indian  Ocean,  in  the  Arabian  nights  spent  upon 
the  housetops  under  the  purple  sky,  and  be 
neath  silver  stars  so  near  that  he  could  touch 
them  with  his  hand. 

He  found  it  like  being  perpetually  in  a  comic 
opera  and  playing  a  part  in  one.  For  only  the 
scenic  artist  would  dare  to  paint  houses  in  such 
yellow,  pink,  and  cobalt-blue;  only  a  "producer" 
who  had  never  ventured  farther  from  Broadway 
than  the  Atlantic  City  boardwalk  would  have 
conceived  costumes  so  mad  and  so  magnificent. 
Instinctively  he  cast  the  people  of  Zanzibar  in 
the  conventional  roles  of  musical  comedy. 

His  choruses  were  already  in  waiting.  There 
was  the  Sultan's  body-guard  in  gold-laced  tur 
bans,  the  merchants  of  the  bazaars  in  red  fezzes 

95 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

and  gowns  of  flowing  silk,  the  Malay  sailors  in 
blue,  the  black  native  police  in  scarlet,  the 
ladies  of  the  harems  closely  veiled  and  cloaked, 
the  market  women  in  a  single  garment  of 
orange,  or  scarlet,  or  purple,  or  of  all  three, 
and  the  happy,  hilarious  Zanzibar!  boys  in  the 
color  God  gave  them. 

For  hours  he  would  sit  under  the  yellow-and- 
green  awning  of  the  Greek  hotel  and  watch  the 
procession  pass,  or  he  would  lie  under  an  um 
brella  on  the  beach  and  laugh  as  the  boatmen 
lifted  their  passengers  to  their  shoulders  and 
with  them  splash  through  the  breakers,  or  in 
the  bazaars  for  hours  he  would  bargain  with 
the  Indian  merchants,  or  in  the  great  mahogany 
hall  of  the  Ivory  House,  to  the  whisper  of  a 
punka  and  the  tinkle  of  ice  in  a  tall  glass,  listen 
to  tales  of  Arab  raids,  of  elephant  poachers,  of 
the  trade  in  white  and  black  ivory,  of  the  great 
explorers  who  had  sat  in  that  same  room — o\ 
Emin  Pasha,  of  Livingstone,  of  Stanley.  His 
comic  opera  lacked  only  a  heroine  and  the  love 
interest. 

When  he  met  Mrs.  Adair  he  found  both. 
Polly  Adair,  as  every  one  who  dared  to  do  so 
preferred  to  call  her,  was,  like  himself,  an  Ameri 
can  and,  though  absurdly  young,  a  widow.  In 
the  States  she  would  have  been  called  an  ex 
tremely  pretty  girl.  In  a  community  where  the 

96 


He  found  it  like  being  perpetually  in  a  comic  opera. 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

few  dozen  white  women  had  wilted  and  faded 
in  the  fierce  sun  of  the  equator,  and  where  the 
rest  of  the  women  were  jet  black  except  their 
teeth,  which  were  dyed  an  alluring  purple,  Polly 
Adair  was  as  beautiful  as  a  June  morning.  At 
least,  so  Hemingway  thought  the  first  time  he 
saw  her,  and  each  succeeding  time  he  thought 
her  more  beautiful,  more  lovely,  more  to  be 
loved. 

He  met  her,  three  days  after  his  arrival,  at 
the  residence  of  the  British  agent  and  consul- 
general,  where  Lady  Firth  was  giving  tea  to  the 
six  nurses  from  the  English  hospital  and  to  all 
the  other  respectable  members  of  Zanzibar 
society. 

"My  husband's  typist,"  said  her  ladyship  as 
she  helped  Hemingway  to  tea,  "  is  a  copatriot  of 
yours.  She's  such  a  nice  gell;  not  a  bit  like  an 
American.  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do  in  this 
awful  place  without  her.  Promise  me,"  she 
begged  tragically,  "you  will  not  ask  her  to 
marry  you." 

Unconscious  of  his  fate,  Hemingway  promised. 

"Because  all  the  men  do,"  sighed  Lady  Firth, 
"and  I  never  know  what  morning  one  of  the 
wretches  won't  carry  her  off  to  a  home  of  her 
own.  And  then  what  would  become  of  me? 
Men  are  so  selfish !  If  you  must  fall  in  love," 
suggested  her  ladyship,  "promise  me  you  will 

97 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

fall  in  love  with" — she  paused  innocently  and 
raised  baby-blue  eyes,  in  a  baby-like  stare — 
"with  some  one  else." 

Again  Hemingway  promised.  He  bowed  gal 
lantly.  "That  will  be  quite  easy,"  he  said. 

Her  ladyship  smiled,  but  Hemingway  did 
not  see  the  smile.  He  was  looking  past  her  at 
a  girl  from  home,  who  came  across  the  terrace 
carrying  in  her  hand  a  stenographer's  note 
book. 

Lady  Firth  followed  the  direction  of  his  eyes 
and  saw  the  look  in  them.  She  exclaimed  with 
dismay : 

"Already!  Already  he  deserts  me,  even  be 
fore  the  ink  is  dry  on  the  paper." 

She  drew  the  note-book  from  Mrs.  Adair's 
fingers  and  dropped  it  under  the  tea-table. 

"Letters  must  wait,  my  child,"  she  declared. 

"But  Sir  George — "  protested  the  girl. 

"Sir  George  must  wait,  too,"  continued  his 
wife;  "the  Foreign  Office  must  wait,  the  British 
Empire  must  wait  until  you  have  had  your 


tea/1 


The  girl  laughed  helplessly.  As  though  as 
sured  her  fellow  countryman  would  comprehend, 
she  turned  to  him. 

"They're  so  exactly  like  what  you  want  them 
to  be,"  she  said — "I  mean  about  their  tea !" 

Hemingway  smiled  back  with  such  intimate 

98 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

understanding  that  Lady  Firth  glanced  up  in 
quiringly. 

"Have  you  met  Mrs.  Adair  already?*'  she 
asked. 

"No,"  said  Hemingway,  "but  I  have  been 
trying  to  meet  her  for  thirty  years." 

Perplexed,  the  Englishwoman  frowned,  and 
then,  with  delight  at  her  own  perspicuity, 
laughed  aloud. 

"I  know,"  she  cried,  "in  your  country  you 
are  what  they  call  a  *  hustler* !  Is  that  right?" 
She  waved  them  away.  "Take  Mrs.  Adair 
over  there,"  she  commanded,  "and  tell  her  all 
the  news  from  home.  Tell  her  about  the  rail 
road  accidents  and  'washouts'  and  the  latest 
thing  in  lynching." 

The  young  people  stretched  out  in  long 
wicker  chairs  in  the  shade  of  a  tree  covered 
with  purple  flowers.  On  a  perch  at  one  side 
of  them  an  orang-outang  in  a  steel  belt  was 
combing  the  whiskers  of  her  infant  daughter; 
at  their  feet  what  looked  like  two  chow  puppies, 
but  which  happened  to  be  Lady  Firth's  pet 
lions,  were  chewing  each  other's  toothless  gums; 
and  in  the  immediate  foreground  the  hospital 
nurses  were  defying  the  sun  at  tennis  while  the 
Sultan's  band  played  selections  from  a  Gaiety 
success  of  many  years  in  the  past.  With  these 
surroundings  it  was  difficult  to  talk  of  home. 

99 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

Nor  on  any  later  occasions,  except  through  in 
advertence,  did  they  talk  of  home. 

For  the  reasons  already  stated,  it  amused 
Hemingway  to  volunteer  no  confidences.  On 
account  of  what  that  same  evening  Harris  told 
him  of  Mrs.  Adair,  he  asked  none. 

Harris  himself  was  a  young  man  in  no  way 
inclined  to  withhold  confidences.  He  enjoyed 
giving  out  information.  He  enjoyed  talking 
about  himself,  his  duties,  the  other  consuls,  the 
Zanzibaris,  and  his  native  State  of  Iowa.  So 
long  as  he  was  permitted  to  talk,  the  listener 
could  select  the  subject.  But,  combined  with 
his  loquacity,  Hemingway  had  found  him  kind- 
hearted,  intelligent,  observing,  and  the  call  of 
a  common  country  had  got  them  quickly  to 
gether. 

Hemingway  was  quite  conscious  that  the  girl 
he  had  seen  but  once  had  impressed  him  out  of 
all  proportion  to  what  he  knew  of  her.  She 
seemed  too  good  to  be  true.  And  he  tried  to 
persuade  himself  that  after  eight  months  in  the 
hinterland  among  hippos  and  zebras  any  reason 
ably  attractive  girl  would  have  proved  equally 
disturbing. 

But  he  was  not  convinced.  He  did  not  wish 
to  be  convinced.  He  assured  himself  that  had 
he  met  Mrs.  Adair  at  home  among  hundreds  of 
others  he  would  have  recognized  her  as  a  woman 

100 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

of  exceptional  character,  as  one  especially  charm 
ing.  He  wanted  to  justify  this  idea  of  her;  he 
wanted  to  talk  of  Mrs.  Adair  to  Harris,  not  to 
learn  more  concerning  her,  but  just  for  the 
pleasure  of  speaking  her  name. 

He  was  much  upset  at  that,  and  the  discovery 
that  on  meeting  a  woman  for  the  first  time  he 
still  could  be  so  boyishly  and  ingenuously  moved 
greatly  pleased  him.  It  was  a  most  delightful 
secret.  So  he  acted  on  the  principle  that  when 
a  man  immensely  admires  a  woman  and  wishes 
to  conceal  that  fact  from  every  one  else  he  can 
best  do  so  by  declaring  his  admiration  in  the 
frankest  and  most  open  manner.  After  the 
tea-party,  as  Harris  and  himself  sat  in  the  con 
sulate,  he  so  expressed  himself. 

"What  an  extraordinary  nice  girl,"  he  ex 
claimed,  "is  that  Mrs.  Adair!  I  had  a  long 
talk  with  her.  She  is  most  charming.  How 
ever  did  a  woman  like  that  come  to  be  in  a 
place  like  this?" 

Judging  from  his  manner,  it  seemed  to  Hem 
ingway  that  at  the  mention  of  Mrs.  Adair's 
name  he  had  found  Harris  mentally  on  guard, 
as  though  the  consul  had  guessed  the  question 
would  come  and  had  prepared  for  it. 

"She  just  dropped  in  here  one  day,"  said 
Harris,  "from  no  place  in  particular.  Person 
ally,  I  always  have  thought  from  heaven." 

101 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

"It's  a  good  address,"  said  Hemingway. 

"It  seems  to  suit  her,"  the  consul  agreed. 
"Anyway,  if  she  doesn't  come  from  there,  that's 
where  she's  going — just  on  account  of  the  good 
she's  done  us  while  she's  been  here.  She  ar 
rived  four  months  ago  with  a  typewriting- 
machine  and  letters  to  me  from  our  consuls  in 
Cape  Town  and  Durban.  She  had  done  some 
typewriting  for  them.  It  seems  that  after  her 
husband  died,  which  was  a  few  months  after 
they  were  married,  she  learned  to  make  her 
living  by  typewriting.  She  worked  too  hard 
and  broke  down,  and  the  doctor  said  she  must 
go  to  hot  countries,  the  *  hotter  the  better.'  So 
she's  worked  her  way  half  around  the  world 
typewriting.  She  worked  chiefly  for  her  own 
consuls  or  for  the  American  commission  houses. 
Sometimes  she  stayed  a  month,  sometimes  only 
over  one  steamer  day.  But  when  she  got  here 
Lady  Firth  took  such  a  fancy  to  her  that  she 
made  Sir  George  engage  her  as  his  private 
secretary,  and  she's  been  here  ever  since." 

In  a  community  so  small  as  was  that  of  Zan 
zibar  the  white  residents  saw  one  another  every 
day,  and  within  a  week  Hemingway  had  met 
Mrs.  Adair  many  times.  He  met  her  at  dinner, 
at  the  British  agency;  he  met  her  in  the  country 
club,  where  the  white  exiles  gathered  for  tea 
and  tennis.  He  hired  a  launch  and  in  her 

102 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

honor  gave  a  picnic  on  the  north  coast  of  the 
island,  and  on  three  glorious  and  memorable 
nights,  after  different  dinner-parties  had  as 
cended  to  the  roof,  he  sat  at  her  side  and  across 
the  white  level  of  the  housetops  looked  down 
into  the  moonlit  harbor. 

What  interest  the  two  young  people  felt  in 
each  other  was  in  no  way  discouraged  by  then* 
surroundings.  In  the  tropics  the  tender  emo 
tions  are  not  winter  killed.  Had  they  met  at 
home,  the  conventions,  his  own  work,  her  social 
duties  would  have  kept  the  progress  of  their 
interest  within  a  certain  speed  limit.  But  they 
were  in  a  place  free  of  conventions,  and  the 
preceding  eight  months  which  Hemingway  had 
spent  in  the  jungle  and  on  the  plain  had  made 
the  society  of  his  fellow  man,  and  of  Mrs.  Adair 
in  particular,  especially  attractive. 

Hemingway  had  no  work  to  occupy  his  time, 
and  he  placed  it  unreservedly  at  the  disposition 
of  his  countrywoman.  In  doing  so  it  could  not 
be  said  that  Mrs.  Adair  encouraged  him.  Hem 
ingway  himself  would  have  been  the  first  to 
acknowledge  this.  From  the  day  he  met  her 
he  was  conscious  that  always  there  was  an  in 
tangible  barrier  between  them.  Even  before 
she  possibly  could  have  guessed  that  his  inter 
est  in  her  was  more  than  even  she,  attractive 
as  she  was,  had  the  right  to  expect,  she  had 


THE  iMEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

wrapped  around  herself  an  invisible  mantle  of 
defense. 

There  were  certain  speeches  of  his  which  she 
never  heard,  certain  tones  to  which  she  never 
responded.  At  moments  when  he  was  compli 
menting  himself  that  at  last  she  was  content  to 
be  in  his  company,  she  would  suddenly  rise  and 
join  the  others,  and  he  would  be  left  wondering 
in  what  way  he  could  possibly  have  offended. 

He  assured  himself  that  a  woman,  young  and 
attractive,  in  a  strange  land  in  her  dependent 
position  must  of  necessity  be  discreet,  but  in  his 
conduct  there  certainly  had  been  nothing  that 
was  not  considerate,  courteous,  and  straightfor 
ward. 

When  he  appreciated  that  he  cared  for  her 
seriously,  that  he  was  gloriously  happy  in  car 
ing,  and  proud  of  the  way  in  which  he  cared,  the 
fact  that  she  persistently  held  him  at  arm's 
length  puzzled  and  hurt.  At  first  when  he  had 
deliberately  set  to  work  to  make  her  like  him 
he  was  glad  to  think  that,  owing  to  his  reticence 
about  himself,  if  she  did  like  him  it  would  be 
for  himself  alone  and  not  for  his  worldly  goods. 
But  when  he  knew  her  better  he  understood 
that  if  once  Mrs.  Adair  made  up  her  mind  to 
take  a  second  husband,  the  fact  that  he  was  a 
social  and  financial  somebody,  and  not,  as  many 
in  Zanzibar  supposed  Hemingway  to  be,  a  social 
outcast,  would  make  but  little  difference. 

104 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

Nor  was  her  manner  to  be  explained  by  the 
fact  that  the  majority  of  women  found  him  un 
attractive.  As  to  that,  the  pleasant  burden  of 
his  experience  was  to  the  contrary.  He  at  last 
wondered  if  there  was  some  one  else,  if  he  had 
come  into  her  life  too  late.  He  set  about  look 
ing  for  the  man  and  so,  he  believed,  he  soon 
found  him. 

Of  the  little  colony,  Arthur  Fearing  was  the 
man  of  whom  Hemingway  had  seen  the  least. 
That  was  so  because  Fearing  wished  it.  Like 
himself,  Fearing  was  an  American,  young,  and 
a  bachelor,  but,  very  much  unlike  Hemingway, 
a  hermit  and  a  recluse. 

Two  years  before  he  had  come  to  Zanzibar 
looking  for  an  investment  for  his  money.  In 
Zanzibar  there  were  gentlemen  adventurers  of 
every  country,  who  were  welcome  to  live  in  any 
country  save  their  own. 

To  them  Mr.  Fearing  seemed  a  heaven-sent 
victim.  But  to  him  their  alluring  tales  of  the 
fortunes  that  were  to  rise  from  buried  treasures, 
lost  mines,  and  pearl  beds  did  not  appeal.  In 
stead  he  conferred  with  the  consuls,  the  respon 
sible  merchants,  the  partners  in  the  prosperous 
trading  houses.  After  a  month  of  "looking 
around"  he  had  purchased  outright  the  good 
will  and  stock  of  one  of  the  oldest  of  the  com 
mission  houses,  and  soon  showed  himself  to  be 
a  most  capable  man  of  business.  But,  except 

105 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

as  a  man  of  business,  no  one  knew  him.  From 
the  dim  recesses  of  his  warehouse  he  passed 
each  day  to  the  seclusion  of  his  bungalow  in 
the  country.  And,  although  every  one  was 
friendly  to  him,  he  made  no  friends. 

It  was  only  after  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Adair 
that  he  consented  to  show  himself,  and  it  was 
soon  noted  that  it  was  only  when  she  was  in 
vited  that  he  would  appear,  and  that  on  these 
occasions  he  devoted  himself  entirely  to  her. 
In  the  presence  of  others,  he  still  was  shy, 
gravely  polite,  and  speaking  but  little,  and 
never  of  himself;  but  with  Mrs.  Adair  his  shy 
ness  seemed  to  leave  him,  and  when  with  her 
he  was  seen  to  talk  easily  and  eagerly.  And, 
on  her  part,  to  what  he  said,  Polly  Adair  lis 
tened  with  serious  interest. 

Lady  Firth,  who,  at  home,  was  a  trained  and 
successful  match-maker,  and  who,  in  Zanzibar, 
had  found  but  a  limited  field  for  her  activities, 
decided  that  if  her  companion  and  protegee 
must  marry,  she  should  marry  Fearing. 

Fearing  was  no  gentleman  adventurer,  remit 
tance-man,  or  humble  clerk  serving  his  appren 
ticeship  to  a  steamship  line  or  an  ivory  house. 
He  was  one  of  the  pillars  of  Zanzibar  society. 
The  trading  house  he  had  purchased  had  had 
its  beginnings  in  the  slave-trade,  and  now  under 
his  alert  direction  was  making  a  turnover  equal 

106 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

to  that  of  any  of  its  ancient  rivals.  Personally, 
Fearing  was  a  most  desirable  catch.  He  was 
well-mannered,  well-read,  of  good  appearance, 
steady,  and,  in  a  latitude  only  six  degrees  re 
moved  from  the  equator,  of  impeccable  morals. 

It  is  said  that  it  is  the  person  who  is  in  love 
who  always  is  the  first  to  discover  his  successful 
rival.  It  is  either  an  instinct  or  because  his 
concern  is  deeper  than  that  of  others. 

And  so,  when  Hemingway  sought  for  the  in 
fluence  that  separated  him  from  Polly  Adair, 
the  trail  led  to  Fearing.  To  find  that  the  ob 
stacle  in  the  path  of  his  true  love  was  a  man 
greatly  relieved  him.  He  had  feared  that  what 
was  in  the  thoughts  of  Mrs.  Adair  was  the 
memory  of  her  dead  husband.  He  had  no  de 
sire  to  cross  swords  with  a  ghost.  But  to  a 
living  rival  he  could  afford  to  be  generous. 

For  he  was  sure  no  one  could  care  for  Polly 
Adair  as  he  cared,  and,  like  every  other  man  in 
love,  he  believed  that  he  alone  had  discovered 
in  her  beauties  of  soul  and  character  that  to 
the  rest  of  mankind  were  hidden.  This  knowl 
edge,  he  assured  himself,  had  aroused  in  him  a 
depth  of  devotion  no  one  else  could  hope  to 
imitate,  and  this  depth  of  devotion  would  in 
time  so  impress  her,  would  become  so  necessary 
to  her  existence,  that  it  would  force  her  at  last 
into  the  arms  of  the  only  man  who  could  offer  it. 

107 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

Having  satisfied  himself  in  this  fashion,  he 
continued  cheerfully  on  his  way,  and  the  pres 
ence  of  a  rival  in  no  way  discouraged  him.  It 
only  was  Polly  Adair  who  discouraged  him. 
And  this,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  every  hour  of 
the  day  he  tried  to  bring  himself  pleasantly  to 
her  notice.  All  that  an  idle  young  man  in  love, 
aided  and  abetted  by  imagination  and  an  un 
limited  letter  of  credit,  could  do,  Hemingway 
did.  But  to  no  end. 

The  treasures  he  dug  out  of  the  bazaars  and 
presented  to  her,  under  false  pretenses  as  trin 
kets  he  happened  at  that  moment  to  find  in  his 
pockets,  were  admired  by  her  at  their  own 
great  value,  and  returned  also  under  false  pre 
tenses,  as  having  been  offered  her  only  to 
examine. 

"It  is  for  your  sister  at  home,  I  suppose/* 
she  prompted.  "  It's  quite  lovely.  Thank  you 
for  letting  me  see  it." 

After  having  been  several  times  severely 
snubbed  in  this  fashion,  Hemingway  remarked 
grimly  as  he  put  a  black  pearl  back  into  his 
pocket: 

"At  this  rate  sister  will  be  mighty  glad  to 
see  me  when  I  get  home.  It  seems  almost  a 
pity  I  haven't  got  a  sister." 

The  girl  answered  this  only  with  a  grave 
smile. 

108 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

On  another  occasion  she  admired  a  polo  pony 
that  had  been  imported  for  the  stable  of  the 
boy  Sultan.  But  next  morning  Hemingway, 
after  much  diplomacy,  became  the  owner  of  it 
and  proudly  rode  it  to  the  agency.  Lady  Firth 
and  Polly  Adair  walked  out  to  meet  him  arm 
in  arm,  but  at  sight  of  the  pony  there  came  into 
the  eyes  of  the  secretary  a  look  that  caused 
Hemingway  to  wish  himself  and  his  mount 
many  miles  in  the  jungle.  He  saw  that  before 
it  had  been  proffered,  his  gift-horse  had  been 
rejected.  He  acted  promptly. 

"Lady  Firth,"  he  said,  "you've  been  so  aw 
fully  kind  to  me,  made  this  place  so  like  a  home 
to  me,  that  I  want  you  to  put  this  mare  in 
your  stable.  The  Sultan  wanted  her,  but  when 
he  learned  I  meant  to  turn  her  over  to  you, 
he  let  her  go.  We  both  hope  you'll  accept." 

Lady  Firth  had  no  scruples.  In  five  minutes 
she  had  accepted,  had  clapped  a  side-saddle  on 
her  rich  gift,  and  was  cantering  joyously  down 
the  Pearl  Road. 

Polly  Adair  looked  after  her  with  an  expres 
sion  that  was  distinctly  wistful.  Thus  encour 
aged,  Hemingway  said: 

"I'm  glad  you  are  sorry.  I  hope  every  time 
you  see  that  pony  you'll  be  sorry." 

"Why  should  I  be  sorry?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Because  you  have  been  unkind,"  said  Hem- 
109 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

ingway,  "and  it  is  not  your  character  to  be  un 
kind.  And  that  you  have  shown  lack  of  char 
acter  ought  to  make  you  sorry." 

"But  you  know  perfectly  well,"  said  Mrs. 
Adair,  "that  if  I  were  to  take  any  one  of  these 
wonderful  things  you  bring  me,  I  wouldn't  have 
any  character  left." 

She  smiled  at  him  reassuringly.  "And  you 
know,"  she  added,  "that  that  is  not  why  I  do 
not  take  them.  It  isn't  because  I  can't  afford 
to,  or  because  I  don't  want  them,  because  I 
do;  but  it's  because  I  don't  deserve  them,  be 
cause  I  can  give  you  nothing  in  return." 

"As  the  copy-book  says,"  returned  Heming 
way,  "'the  pleasure  is  in  the  giving.'  If  the 
copy-book  don't  say  that,  I  do.  And  to  pretend 
that  you  give  me  nothing,  that  is  ridiculous!" 

It  was  so  ridiculous  that  he  rushed  on  vehe 
mently.  "Why,  every  minute  you  give  me 
something,"  he  exclaimed.  "Just  to  see  you, 
just  to  know  you  are  alive,  just  to  be  certain 
when  I  turn  in  at  night  that  when  the  world 
wakes  up  again  you  will  still  be  a  part  of  it; 
that  is  what  you  give  me.  And  its  name  is — 
Happiness!" 

He  had  begun  quite  innocently;  he  had  had 
no  idea  that  it  would  come.  But  he  had  said 
it.  As  clearly  as  though  he  had  dropped  upon 
one  knee,  laid  his  hand  over  his  heart  and  ex- 

110 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

claimed:  "Most  beautiful  of  your  sex,  I  love 
you !  Will  you  marry  me?"  His  eyes  and  the 
tone  of  his  voice  had  said  it.  And  he  knew 
that  he  had  said  it,  and  that  she  knew. 

Her  eyes  were  filled  with  sudden  tears,  and 
so  wonderful  was  the  light  in  them  that  for 
one  mad  moment  Hemingway  thought  they 
were  tears  of  happiness.  But  the  light  died, 
and  what  had  been  tears  became  only  wet  drops 
of  water,  and  he  saw  to  his  dismay  that  she 
was  most  miserable. 

The  girl  moved  ahead  of  him  to  the  cliff  on 
which  the  agency  stood,  and  which  overhung 
the  harbor  and  the  Indian  Ocean.  Her  eyes 
were  filled  with  trouble.  As  she  raised  them  to 
his  they  begged  of  him  to  be  kind. 

"I  am  glad  you  told  me,"  she  said.  "I  have 
been  afraid  it  was  coming.  But  until  you  told 
me  I  could  not  say  anything.  I  tried  to  stop 
you.  I  was  rude  and  unkind " 

"You  certainly  were,"  Hemingway  agreed 
cheerfully.  "And  the  more  you  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  me,  the  more  I  admired  you. 
And  then  I  learned  to  admire  you  more,  and 
then  to  love  you.  It  seems  now  as  though  I 
had  always  known  and  always  loved  you.  And 
now  this  is  what  we  are  going  to  do." 

He  wouldn't  let  her  speak;  he  rushed  on  pre 
cipitately. 

in 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

"We  are  first  going  up  to  the  house  to  get 
your  typewriting-machine,  and  we  will  bring  it 
back  here  and  hurl  it  as  far  as  we  can  off  this 
cliff.  I  want  to  see  the  splash  !  I  want  to  hear 
it  smash  when  it  hits  that  rock.  It  has  been 
my  worst  enemy,  because  it  helped  you  to  be 
independent  of  me,  because  it  kept  you  from 
me.  Time  after  time,  on  the  veranda,  when  I 
was  pretending  to  listen  to  Lady  Firth,  I  was 
listening  to  that  damned  machine  banging  and 
complaining  and  tiring  your  pretty  fingers  and 
your  dear  eyes.  So  first  it  has  got  to  go.  You 
have  been  its  slave,  now  I  am  going  to  be  your 
slave.  You  have  only  to  rub  the  lamp  and 
things  will  happen.  And  because  I've  told  you 
nothing  about  myself,  you  mustn't  think  that 
the  money  that  helps  to  make  them  happen  is 
'tainted.'  It  isn't.  Nor  am  I,  nor  my  father, 
nor  my  father's  father.  I  am  asking  you  to 
marry  a  perfectly  respectable  young  man. 
And,  when  you  do " 

Again  he  gave  her  no  opportunity  to  inter 
rupt,  but  rushed  on  impetuously:  "We  will  sail 
away  across  that  ocean  to  wherever  you  will 
take  me.  To  Ceylon  and  Tokio  and  San  Fran 
cisco,  to  Naples  and  New  York,  to  Greece  and 
Athens.  They  are  all  near.  They  are  all 
yours.  Will  you  accept  them  and  me?"  He 
smiled  appealingly,  but  most  miserably.  For 
though  he  had  spoken  lightly  and  with  confi- 

112 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

dence,  it  was  to  conceal  the  fact  that  he  was 
not  at  all  confident.  As  he  had  read  in  her 
eyes  her  refusal  of  his  pony,  he  had  read,  even 
as  he  spoke,  her  refusal  of  himself.  When  he 
ceased  speaking  the  girl  answered: 

"If  I  say  that  what  you  tell  me  makes  me 
proud,  I  am  saying  too  little."  She  shook  her 
head  firmly,  with  an  air  of  finality  that  fright 
ened  Hemingway.  "But  what  you  ask — what 
you  suggest  is  impossible." 

"You  don't  like  me?"  said  Hemingway. 

"I  like  you  very  much,"  returned  the  girl, 
"and,  if  I  don't  seem  unhappy  that  it  can't  be, 
it  is  because  I  always  have  known  it  can't 

i » 

"Why  can't  it  be?"  rebelled  Hemingway. 
"I  don't  mean  that  I  can't  understand  your 
not  wanting  to  marry  me,  but  if  I  knew  your 
objection,  maybe,  I  could  beat  it  down." 

Again,  with  the  same  air  of  finality,  the  girl 
moved  her  head  slowly,  as  though  considering 
each  word;  she  began  cautiously. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  the  reason,"  she  said,  "be 
cause  it  does  not  concern  only  myself." 

"If  you  mean  you  care  for  some  one  else," 
pleaded  Hemingway,  "that  does  not  frighten 
me  at  all."  It  did  frighten  him  extremely,  but, 
believing  that  a  faint  heart  never  won  any 
thing,  he  pretended  to  be  brave. 

"For  you,"  he  boasted,  "I  would  go  down 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

into  the  grave  as  deep  as  any  man.  He  that 
hath  more  let  him  give.  I  know  what  I  offer. 
I  know  I  love  you  as  no  other  man " 

The  girl  backed  away  from  him  as  though  he 
had  struck  her.  "You  must  not  say  that," 
she  commanded. 

For  the  first  time  he  saw  that  she  was  moved, 
that  the  fingers  she  laced  and  unlaced  were 
trembling.  "It  is  final!"  exclaimed  the  girl. 
"I  cannot  marry — you,  or  any  one.  I — I  have 
promised.  I  am  not  free." 

"Nothing  in  the  world  is  final,"  returned 
Hemingway  sharply,  "except  death."  He  raised 
his  hat  and,  as  though  to  leave  her,  moved 
away.  Not  because  he  admitted  defeat,  but 
because  he  felt  that  for  the  present  to  con 
tinue  might  lose  him  the  chance  to  fight  again. 
But,  to  deliver  an  ultimatum,  he  turned 
back. 

"As  long  as  you  are  alive,  and  I  am  alive," 
he  told  her,  "all  things  are  possible.  I  don't 
give  up  hope.  I  don't  give  up  you." 

The  girl  exclaimed  with  a  gesture  of  despair. 
"He  won't  understand!"  she  cried. 

Hemingway  advanced  eagerly. 

"Help  me  to  understand,"  he  begged. 

"You  won't  understand,"  explained  the  girl, 
"that  I  am  speaking  the  truth.  You  are  right 
that  things  can  change  in  the  future,  but  noth- 

114 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

ing  can  change  the  past.     Can't  you  understand 
that?" 

"What  do  I  care  for  the  past?"  cried  the 
young  man  scornfully.  "I  know  you  as  well 
as  though  I  had  known  you  for  a  thousand 
years  and  I  love  you." 

The  girl  flushed  crimson. 

"Not  my  past,"  she  gasped.     "I  meant " 

"I  don't  care  what  you  meant,"  said  Hem 
ingway.  "I'm  not  prying  into  your  little  se 
crets.  I  know  only  one  thing — two  things,  that 
I  love  you  and  that,  until  you  love  me,  I  am 
going  to  make  your  life  hell !" 

He  caught  at  her  hands,  and  for  an  instant 
she  let  him  clasp  them  in  both  of  his,  while  she 
looked  at  him. 

Something  in  her  face,  other  than  distress 
and  pity,  caused  his  heart  to  leap.  But  he 
was  too  wise  to  speak,  and,  that  she  might  not 
read  the  hope  in  his  eyes,  turned  quickly  and 
left  her.  He  had  not  crossed  the  grounds  of 
the  agency  before  he  had  made  up  his  mind  as 
to  the  reason  for  her  repelling  him. 

"She  is  engaged  to  Fearing !"  he  told  himself. 
"She  has  promised  to  marry  Fearing!  She 
thinks  that  it  is  too  late  to  consider  another 
man!"  The  prospect  of  a  fight  for  the  woman 
he  loved  thrilled  him  greatly.  His  lower  jaw 
set  pugnaciously. 

115 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

"I'll  show  her  it's  not  too  late,"  he  promised 
himself.  "  I'll  show  her  which  of  us  is  the  man 
to  make  her  happy.  And,  if  I  am  not  the  man, 
I'll  take  the  first  outbound  steamer  and  trouble 
them  no  more.  But  before  that  happens,"  he 
also  promised  himself,  "Fearing  must  show  he 
is  the  better  man." 

In  spite  of  his  brave  words,  in  spite  of  his 
determination,  within  the  day  Hemingway  had 
withdrawn  in  favor  of  his  rival,  and,  on  the 
Crown  Prince  Eitel,  bound  for  Genoa  and  New 
York,  had  booked  his  passage  home. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  he  had 
spoken  to  Polly  Adair,  Hemingway  at  the  sun 
set  hour  betook  himself  to  the  consulate.  At 
that  hour  it  had  become  his  custom  to  visit  his 
fellow  countryman  and  with  him  share  the  gos 
sip  of  the  day  and  such  a  cocktail  as  only  a 
fellow  countryman  could  compose.  Later  he 
was  to  dine  at  the  house  of  the  Ivory  Company 
and,  as  his  heart  never  ceased  telling  him,  Mrs. 
Adair  also  was  to  be  present. 

"  It  will  be  a  very  pleasant  party,"  said  Har 
ris.  "They  gave  me  a  bid,  too,  but  it's  steamer 
day  to-morrow,  and  I've  got  to  get  my  mail 
ready  for  the  Crown  Prince  Eitel.  Mrs.  Adair 
is  to  be  there." 

Hemingway  nodded,  and  with  pleasant  an 
ticipation  waited.  Of  Mrs.  Adair,  Harris  al- 

116 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

ways  spoke  with  reverent  enthusiasm,  and  the 
man  who  loved  her  delighted  to  listen.  But 
this  time  Harris  disappointed  him. 

"And  Fearing,  too,'*  he  added. 

Again  Hemingway  nodded.  The  conjunction 
of  the  two  names  surprised  him,  but  he  made 
no  sign.  Loquacious  as  he  knew  Harris  to  be, 
he  never  before  had  heard  his  friend  even  sug 
gest  the  subject  that  to  Zanzibar  had  become 
of  acute  interest. 

Harris  filled  the  two  glasses,  and  began  to 
pace  the  room.  When  he  spoke  it  was  in  the 
aggrieved  tone  of  one  who  feels  himself  placed 
in  a  false  position. 

"There's  no  one,"  he  complained  suddenly, 
"so  popularly  unpopular  as  the  man  who  butts 
in.  I  know  that,  but  still  I've  always  taken 
his  side.  I've  always  been  for  him."  He 
halted,  straddling  with  legs  apart  and  hands 
deep  in  his  trousers  pockets,  and  frowned  down 
upon  his  guest. 

"Suppose,"  he  began  aggressively,  "I  see  a 
man  driving  his  car  over  a  cliff.  If  I  tell  him 
that  road  will  take  him  over  a  cliff,  the  worst 
that  can  happen  to  me  is  to  be  told  to  mind 
my  own  business,  and  I  can  always  answer 
back:  'I  was  only  trying  to  help  you.'  If  I 
dont  speak,  the  man  breaks  his  neck.  Between 
the  two,  it  seems  to  me,  sooner  than  have  any 

117 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

one's  life  on  my  hands,  I'd  rather  be  told  to 
mind  my  own  business." 

Hemingway  stared  into  his  glass.  His  ex 
pression  was  distinctly  disapproving,  but,  un 
dismayed,  the  consul  continued. 

"Now,  we  all  know  that  this  morning  you 
gave  that  polo  pony  to  Lady  Firth,  and  one  of 
us  guesses  that  you  first  oflered  it  to  some  one 
else,  who  refused  it.  One  of  us  thinks  that 
very  soon,  to-morrow,  or  even  to-night,  at  this 
party  you  may  offer  that  same  person  some 
thing  else,  something  worth  more  than  a  polo 
pony,  and  that  if  she  refuses  that,  it  is  going  to 
break  you  all  up,  is  going  to  hurt  you  for  the 
rest  of  your  life." 

Lifting  his  eyes  from  his  glass,  Hemingway 
shot  at  his  friend  a  glance  of  warning.  In  haste, 
Harris  continued: 

"I  know,"  he  protested,  answering  the  look, 
"I  know  that  this  is  where  Mr.  Buttinsky  is 
told  to  mind  his  business.  But  I'm  going  right 
on.  I'm  going  to  state  a  hypothetical  case  with 
no  names  mentioned  and  no  questions  asked, 
or  answered.  I'm  going  to  state  a  theory,  and 
let  you  draw  your  own  deductions." 

He  slid  into  a  chair,  and  across  the  table 
fastened  his  eyes  on  those  of  his  friend.  Con 
fidently  and  undisturbed,  but  with  a  wry  smile 
of  dislike,  Hemingway  stared  fixedly  back  at  him. 

118 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

"What/*  demanded  Harris,  "is  the  first  rule 
in  detective  work?" 

Hemingway  started.  He  was  prepared  for 
something  unpleasant,  but  not  for  that  par 
ticular  form  of  unpleasantness.  But  his  faith 
was  unshaken,  and  he  smiled  confidently.  He 
let  the  consul  answer  his  own  question. 

"  It  is  to  follow  the  woman,"  declared  Harris. 
"And,  accordingly,  what  should  be  the  first 
precaution  of  a  man  making  his  get-away?  To 
see  that  the  woman  does  not  follow.  But  sup 
pose  we  are  dealing  with  a  fugitive  of  especial 
intelligence,  with  a  criminal  who  has  imagina 
tion  and  brains?  He  might  fix  it  so  that  the 
woman  could  follow  him  without  giving  him 
away,  he  might  plan  it  so  that  no  one  would 
suspect.  She  might  arrive  at  his  hiding-place 
only  after  many  months,  only  after  each  had 
made  separately  a  long  circuit  of  the  globe, 
only  after  a  journey  with  a  plausible  and  legiti 
mate  object.  She  would  arrive  disguised  in 
every  way,  and  they  would  meet  as  total 
strangers.  And,  as  strangers  under  the  eyes  of 
others,  they  would  become  acquainted,  would 
gradually  grow  more  friendly,  would  be  seen 
more  frequently  together,  until  at  last  people 
would  say:  *  Those  two  mean  to  make  a  match 
of  it.'  And  then,  one  day,  openly,  in  the  sight 
of  all  men,  with  the  aid  of  the  law  and  the 

119 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

church,  they  would  resume  those  relations  that 
existed  before  the  man  ran  away  and  the  woman 
followed." 

There  was  a  short  silence. 

Hemingway  broke  it  in  a  tone  that  would  ac 
cept  no  denial. 

"You  can't  talk  like  that  to  me,"  he  cried. 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

Without  resentment,  the  consul  regarded  him 
with  grave  solicitude.  His  look  was  one  of  real 
affection,  and,  although  his  tone  held  the  abso 
lute  finality  of  the  family  physician  who  delivers 
a  sentence  of  death,  he  spoke  with  gentleness 
and  regret. 

"I  mean,"  he  said,  "that  Mrs.  Adair  is  not  a 
widow,  that  the  man  she  speaks  of  as  her  late 
husband  is  not  dead;  that  that  man  is  Fearing  I" 

Hemingway  felt  afraid.  A  month  before  a 
rhinoceros  had  charged  him  and  had  dropped 
at  his  feet.  At  another  time  a  wounded  lioness 
had  leaped  into  his  path  and  crouched  to  spring. 
Then  he  had  not  been  afraid.  Then  he  had 
aimed  as  confidently  as  though  he  were  firing  at 
a  straw  target.  But  now  he  felt  real  fear:  fear 
of  something  he  did  not  comprehend,  of  a  situ 
ation  he  could  not  master,  of  an  adversary  as 
strong  as  Fate.  By  a  word  something  had 
been  snatched  from  him  that  he  now  knew  was 
as  dear  to  him  as  life,  that  was  life,  that  was 

120 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

what  made  it  worth  continuing.  And  he  could 
do  nothing  to  prevent  it;  he  could  not  help  him 
self.  He  was  as  impotent  as  the  prisoner  who 
hears  the  judge  banish  him  into  exile.  He  tried 
to  adjust  his  mind  to  the  calamity.  But  his 
mind  refused.  As  easily  as  with  his  finger  a 
man  can  block  the  swing  of  a  pendulum  and 
halt  the  progress  of  the  clock,  Harris  with  a 
word  had  brought  the  entire  world  to  a  full  stop. 

And  then,  above  his  head,  Hemingway  heard 
the  lazy  whisper  of  the  punka,  and  from  the 
harbor  the  raucous  whistle  of  the  Crown  Prince 
Eitel,  signalling  her  entrance.  The  world  had 
not  stopped;  for  the  punka-boy,  for  the  captain 
of  the  German  steamer,  for  Harris  seated  with 
face  averted,  the  world  was  still  going  gayly 
and  busily  forward.  Only  for  him  had  it 
stopped. 

In  spite  of  the  confident  tone  in  which  Harris 
had  spoken,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  unless  he 
knew  it  was  the  truth,  he  would  not  have  spo 
ken,  Hemingway  tried  to  urge  himself  to  believe 
there  had  been  some  hideous,  absurd  error. 
But  in  answer  came  back  to  him  snatches  of 
talk  or  phrases  the  girl  had  last  addressed  to 
him:  "You  can  command  the  future,  but  you 
cannot  change  the  past.  I  cannot  marry  you, 
or  any  one!  I  am  not  free!" 

And  then  to  comfort  himself,  he  called  up 
121 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

the  look  he  had  surprised  in  her  eyes  when  he 
stood  holding  her  hands  in  his.  He  clung  to  it, 
as  a  drowning  man  will  clutch  even  at  a  piece 
of  floating  seaweed. 

When  he  tried  to  speak  he  found  his  voice 
choked  and  stifled,  and  that  his  distress  was 
evident,  he  knew  from  the  pity  he  read  in  the 
eyes  of  Harris. 

In  a  voice  strange  to  him,  he  heard  himself 
saying:  "Why  do  you  think  that?  You've  got 
to  tell  me.  I  have  a  right  to  know.  This 
morning  I  asked  Mrs.  Adair  to  marry  me." 

The  consul  exclaimed  with  dismay  and 
squirmed  unhappily.  "I  didn't  know,"  he 
protested.  "I  thought  I  was  in  time.  I  ought 
to  have  told  you  days  ago,  but " 

"Tell  me  now,"  commanded  Hemingway. 

"I  know  it  in  a  thousand  ways,"  began 
Harris. 

Hemingway  raised  his  eyes  hopefully. 

But  the  consul  shook  his  head.  "But  to 
convince  you,"  he  went  on,  "I  need  tell  you 
only  one.  The  thousand  other  proofs  are  looks 
they  have  exchanged,  sentences  I  have  chanced 
to  overhear,  and  that  each  of  them  unknown  to 
the  other  has  told  me  of  little  happenings  and 
incidents  which  I  found  were  common  to  both. 
Each  has  described  the  house  in  which  he  or 
she  lived,  and  it  was  the  same  house.  They 

122 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

claim  to  come  from  different  cities  in  New  Eng 
land,  they  came  from  the  same  city.  They 
claim " 

"That  is  no  proof,"  cried  Hemingway,  "either 
that  they  are  married,  or  that  the  man  is  a 
criminal." 

For  a  moment  Harris  regarded  the  other  in 
silence.  Then  he  said:  "You're  making  it  very 
hard  for  me.  I  see  I've  got  to  show  you.  It's 
kindest,  after  all,  to  cut  quick."  He  leaned 
farther  forward,  and  his  voice  dropped.  Speak 
ing  quickly,  he  said: 

"Last  summer  I  lived  outside  the  town  in  a 
bungalow  on  the  Pearl  Road.  Fearing's  house 
was  next  to  mine.  This  was  before  Mrs.  Adair 
went  to  live  at  the  agency,  and  while  she  was 
alone  in  another  bungalow  farther  down  the 
road.  I  was  ill  that  summer;  my  nerves  went 
back  on  me.  I  couldn't  sleep.  I  used  to  sit 
all  night  on  my  veranda  and  pray  for  the  sun 
to  rise.  From  where  I  sat  it  was  dark  and  no 
one  could  see  me,  but  I  could  see  the  veranda 
of  Fearing's  house  and  into  his  garden.  And 
night  after  night  I  saw  Mrs.  Adair  creep  out  of 
Fearing's  house,  saw  him  walk  with  her  to  the 
gate,  saw  him  in  the  shadow  of  the  bushes  take 
her  in  his  arms,  and  saw  them  kiss."  The 
voice  of  the  consul  rose  sharply.  "No  one 
knows  that  but  you  and  I,  and,"  he  cried  de- 

123 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

fiantly,  "it  is  impossible  for  us  to  believe  ill 
of  Polly  Adair.  The  easy  explanation  we  re 
fuse.  It  is  intolerable.  And  so  you  must  be 
lieve  as  I  believe;  that  when  she  visited  Fearing 
by  night  she  went  to  him  because  she  had  the 
right  to  go  to  him,  because  already  she  was  his 
wife.  And  now  when  every  one  here  believes 
they  met  for  the  first  time  in  Zanzibar,  when  no 
one  will  be  surprised  if  they  should  marry,  they 
will  go  through  the  ceremony  again,  and  live 
as  man  and  wife,  as  they  are,  as  they  were 
before  he  fled  from  America!" 

Hemingway  was  seated  with  his  elbows  on 
the  table  and  his  face  in  his  hands.  He  was  so 
long  silent  that  Harris  struck  the  table  roughly 
with  his  palm. 

"Well,"  he  demanded,  "why  don't  you 
speak?  Do  you  doubt  her?  Don't  you  believe 
she  is  his  wife?" 

"I  refuse  to  believe  anything  else!"  said 
Hemingway.  He  rose,  and  slowly  and  heavily 
moved  toward  the  door.  "And  I  will  not 
trouble  them  any  more,"  he  added.  "I'll  leave 
at  sunrise  on  the  Eitel." 

Harris  exclaimed  in  dismay,  but  Hemingway 
did  not  hear  him.  In  the  doorway  he  halted 
and  turned  back.  From  his  voice  all  trace  of 
emotion  had  departed.  "Why,"  he  asked  dully, 
"do  you  think  Fearing  is  a  fugitive?  Not  that 

124 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

it  matters  to  her,  since  she  loves  him,  or  that  it 
matters  to  me.  Only  I  would  like  to  think  you 
were  wrong.  I  want  her  to  have  only  the  best." 

Again  the  consul  moved  unhappily. 

"I  oughtn't  to  tell  you,"  he  protested,  "and 
if  I  do  I  ought  to  tell  the  State  Department,  and 
a  detective  agency  first.  They  have  the  call. 
They  want  him,  or  a  man  damned  like  him." 
His  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper.  "The  man 
wanted  is  Henry  Brownell,  a  cashier  of  a  bank 
in  Waltham,  Mass.,  thirty-five  years  of  age, 
smooth-shaven,  college-bred,  speaking  with  a 
marked  New  England  accent,  and — and  with 
other  marks  that  fit  Fearing  like  the  cover  on 
a  book.  The  department  and  the  Pinkertons 
have  been  devilling  the  life  out  of  me  about  it 
for  nine  months.  They  are  positive  he  is  on 
the  coast  of  Africa.  I  put  them  off.  I  wasn't 
sure." 

"  You've  been  protecting  them,"  said  Hem 
ingway. 

"I  wasn't  sure,"  reiterated  Harris.  "And  if 
I  were,  the  Pinkertons  can  do  their  own  sleuth 
ing.  The  man's  living  honestly  now,  anyway, 
isn't  he?"  he  demanded;  "and  she  loves  him. 
At  least  she's  stuck  by  him.  Why  should  I 
punish  £er?" 

His  tone  seemed  to  challenge  and  upbraid. 

"Good    God!"    cried    the    other,    "I'm    not 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

blaming  you !  I'd  be  proud  of  the  chance  to 
do  as  much.  I  asked  because  I'd  like  to  go 
away  thinking  she's  content,  thinking  she's 
happy  with  him." 

"Doesn't  it  look  as  though  she  were?"  Harris 
protested.  "She's  followed  him — followed  him 
half  around  the  globe.  If  she'd  been  happier 
away  from  him,  she'd  have  stayed  away  from 
him." 

So  intent  had  been  the  men  upon  their  talk 
that  neither  had  noted  the  passing  of  the  min 
utes  or,  what  at  other  times  was  an  event  of 
moment,  that  the  mail  steamer  had  distributed 
her  mail  and  passengers;  and  when  a  servant 
entered  bearing  lamps,  and  from  the  office  the 
consul's  clerk  appeared  with  a  bundle  of  letters 
from  the  Eitel,  both  were  taken  by  surprise. 

"So  late?"  exclaimed  Hemingway.  "I  must 
go.  If  I'm  to  sail  with  the  Eitel  at  daybreak, 
I've  little  time!" 

But  he  did  not  go. 

As  he  advanced  toward  Harris  with  his  hand 
outstretched  in  adieu,  the  face  of  the  consul 
halted  him.  With  the  letters,  the  clerk  had 
placed  upon  the  table  a  visiting-card,  and  as  it 
lay  in  the  circle  of  light  from  the  lamp  the  con 
sul,  as  though  it  were  alive  and  menacing, 
stared  at  it  in  fascination.  Moving  stiffly,  he 
turned  it  so  that  Hemingway  could  see.  On  it 

126 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

Hemingway  read,  "George  S.  Sheyer,"  and,  on 
a  lower  line,  "Representing  William  L.  Pinker- 
ton." 

To  the  woman  he  loved  the  calamity  they 
dreaded  had  come,  and  Hemingway,  with  a 
groan  of  dismay,  exclaimed  aloud: 

"It  is  the  end!" 

From  the  darkness  of  the  outer  office  a  man 
stepped  softly  into  the  circle  of  the  lamp. 
They  could  see  his  figure  only  from  the  waist 
down;  the  rest  of  him  was  blurred  in  shadows. 

"It  is  the  end'?"  he  repeated  inquiringly. 
He  spoke  the  phrase  with  peculiar  emphasis,  as 
though  to  impress  it  upon  the  memory  of  the 
two  others.  His  voice  was  cool,  alert,  authori 
tative.  "The  end  of  what?"  he  demanded 
sharply. 

The  question  was  most  difficult.  In  the  si 
lence  the  detective  moved  into  the  light.  He 
was  tall  and  strongly  built,  his  face  was  shrewd 
and  intelligent.  He  might  have  been  a  pros 
perous  man  of  business. 

"Which  of  you  is  the  consul?"  he  asked. 
But  he  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  Hemingway. 

"  I  am  the  consul,"  said  Harris.  But  still  the 
detective  did  not  turn  from  Hemingway. 

"Why,"  he  asked,  "did  this  gentleman,  when 
he  read  my  card,  say,  'It  is  the  end'?  The 
end  of  what?  Has  anything  been  going  on 

127 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

here  that  came  to  an  end  when  he  saw  my 
card?" 

Disconcerted,  in  deep  embarrassment,  Harris 
struggled  for  a  word.  But  his  distress  was  not 
observed  by  the  detective.  His  eyes,  suspicious 
and  accusing,  still  were  fixed  upon  Hemingway, 
and  under  their  scrutiny  Harris  saw  his  friend 
slowly  retreat,  slowly  crumple  up  into  a  chair, 
slowly  raise  his  hands  to  cover  his  face.  As 
though  in  a  nightmare,  he  heard  him  saying 
savagely : 

"  It  is  the  end  of  two  years  of  hell,  it  is  the 
end  of  two  years  of  fear  and  agony!  Now  I 
shall  have  peace.  Now  I  shall  sleep !  I  thank 
God  you've  come!  I  thank  God  I  can  go 
back!" 

Harris  broke  the  spell  by  leaping  to  his  feet. 
He  sprang  between  the  two  men. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  he  commanded. 

Hemingway  raised  his  eyes  and  surveyed  him 
steadily. 

"It  means,"  he  said,  "that  I  have  deceived 
you,  Harris — that  I  am  the  man  you  told  me 
of,  I  am  the  man  they  want."  He  turned  to 
the  officer. 

"I  fooled  him  for  four  months,"  he  said.  "I 
couldn't  fool  you  for  five  minutes." 

The  eyes  of  the  detective  danced  with  sud 
den  excitement,  joy,  and  triumph.  He  shot  an 
eager  glance  from  Hemingway  to  the  consul. 

128 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

"This  man,"  he  demanded;  "who  is  he?" 

With  an  impatient  gesture  Hemingway  signi 
fied  Harris. 

"He  doesn't  know  who  I  am,"  he  said.  "He 
knows  me  as  Hemingway.  I  am  Henry  Brown- 
ell,  of  Waltham,  Mass."  Again  his  face  sank 
into  the  palms  of  his  hands.  "And  I'm  tired — 
tired,"  he  moaned.  "I  am  sick  of  not  know 
ing,  sick  of  running  away.  I  give  myself 
up." 

The  detective  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  that 
seemed  to  issue  from  his  soul. 

"My  God,"  he  sighed,  "you've  given  me  a 
long  chase!  I've  had  eleven  months  of  you, 
and  I'm  as  sick  of  this  as  you  are."  He  recov 
ered  himself  sharply.  As  though  reciting  an 
incantation,  he  addressed  Hemingway  in  crisp, 
emotionless  notes. 

"Henry  Brownell,"  he  chanted,  "I  arrest  you 
in  the  name  of  the  commonwealth  of  Massa 
chusetts  for  the  robbery,  on  October  the  elev 
enth,  nineteen  hundred  and  nine,  of  the  Wal 
tham  Title  and  Trust  Company.  I  under 
stand,"  he  added,  "you  waive  extradition  and 
return  with  me  of  your  own  free  will?" 

With  his  face  still  in  his  hands,  Heming 
way  murmured  assent.  The  detective  stepped 
briskly  and  uninvited  to  the  table  and  seated 
himself.  He  was  beaming  with  triumph,  with 
pleasurable  excitement. 

129 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

"I  want  to  send  a  message  home,  Mr. 
Consul,"  he  said.  "May  I  use  your  cable 
blanks?" 

Harris  was  still  standing  in  the  centre  of  the 
room  looking  down  upon  the  bowed  head  and 
shoulders  of  Hemingway.  Since,  in  amaze 
ment,  he  had  sprung  toward  him,  he  had  not 
spoken.  And  he  was  still  silent. 

Inside  the  skull  of  Wilbur  Harris,  of  Iowa, 
U.  S.  A.,  American  consul  to  Zanzibar,  East 
Africa,  there  was  going  forward  a  mighty  strug 
gle  that  was  not  fit  to  put  into  words.  For 
Harris  and  his  conscience  had  met  and  were  at 
odds.  One  way  or  the  other  the  fight  must  be 
settled  at  once,  and  whatever  he  decided  must 
be  for  all  time.  This  he  understood,  and  as 
his  sympathies  and  conscience  struggled  for  the 
mastery  the  pen  of  the  detective,  scratching  at 
racing  speed  across  the  paper,  warned  him  that 
only  a  few  seconds  were  left  him  in  which  to 
protest  or  else  to  forever  after  hold  his  peace. 

So  realistic  had  been  the  acting  of  Hemingway 
that  for  an  instant  Harris  himself  had  been  de 
ceived.  But  only  for  an  instant.  With  his 
knowledge  of  the  circumstances  he  saw  that 
Hemingway  was  not  confessing  to  a  crime  of 
his  own,  but  drawing  across  the  trail  of  the  real 
criminal  the  convenient  and  useful  red  herring. 
He  knew  that  already  Hemingway  had  deter- 

130 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

mined  to  sail  the  next  morning.  In  leaving 
Zanzibar  he  was  making  no  sacrifice.  He  merely 
was  carrying  out  his  original  plan,  and  by  tak 
ing  away  with  him  the  detective  was  giving 
Brownell  and  his  wife  at  least  a  month  in  which 
to  again  lose  themselves. 

What  was  his  own  duty  he  could  not  deter 
mine.  That  of  Hemingway  he  knew  nothing, 
he  could  truthfully  testify.  And  if  now  Hem 
ingway  claimed  to  be  Henry  Brownell,  he  had 
no  certain  knowledge  to  the  contrary.  That 
through  his  adventure  Hemingway  would  come 
to  harm  did  not  greatly  disturb  him.  He  fore 
saw  that  his  friend  need  only  send  a  wireless 
from  Nantucket  and  at  the  wharf  witnesses 
would  swarm  to  establish  his  identity  and  make 
it  evident  the  detective  had  blundered.  And 
in  the  meanwhile  Brownell  and  his  wife,  in 
some  settlement  still  further  removed  from  ob 
servation,  would  for  the  second  time  have  for 
tified  themselves  against  pursuit  and  capture. 
He  saw  the  eyes  of  Hemingway  fixed  upon  him 
in  appeal  and  warning. 

The  brisk  voice  of  the  detective  broke  the 
silence. 

"  You  will  testify,  if  need  be,  Mr.  Consul,"  he 
said,  "that  you  heard  the  prisoner  admit  he 
was  Henry  Brownell  and  that  he  surrendered 
himself  of  his  own  free  will?" 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

For  an  instant  the  consul  hesitated,  then  he 
nodded  stiffly. 

"  I  heard  him,"  he  said. 

Three  hours  later,  at  ten  o'clock  of  the  same 
evening,  the  detective  and  Hemingway  leaned 
together  on  the  rail  of  the  Crown  Prince  Eitel. 
Forward,  in  the  glare  of  her  cargo  lights,  to  the 
puffing  and  creaking  of  derricks  and  donkey 
engines,  bundles  of  beeswax,  of  rawhides,  and 
precious  tusks  of  ivory  were  being  hurled  into 
the  hold;  from  the  shore-boats  clinging  to  the 
ship's  sides  came  the  shrieks  of  the  Zanzibar 
boys,  from  the  smoking-room  the  blare  of  the 
steward's  band  and  the  clink  of  glasses.  Those 
of  the  youth  of  Zanzibar  who  were  on  board, 
the  German  and  English  clerks  and  agents,  saw 
in  the  presence  of  Hemingway  only  a  purpose 
similar  to  their  own;  the  desire  of  a  homesick 
exile  to  gaze  upon  the  mirrored  glories  of  the 
Eitel's  saloon,  at  the  faces  of  white  men  and 
women,  to  listen  to  home-made  music,  to  drink 
home-brewed  beer.  As  he  passed  the  smoking- 
room  they  called  to  him,  and  to  the  stranger  at 
his  elbow,  but  he  only  nodded  smiling  and, 
avoiding  them,  ascended  to  the  shadow  of  the 
deserted  boat-deck. 

"You  are  sure,"  he  said,  "you  told  no  one?" 

"No  one,"  the  detective  answered.  "Of 
course  your  hotel  proprietor  knows  you're  sail- 

132 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

ing,  but  he  doesn't  know  why.  And,  by  sun 
rise,  we'll  be  well  out  at  sea." 

The  words  caught  Hemingway  by  the  throat. 
He  turned  his  eyes  to  the  town  lying  like  a  field 
of  snow  in  the  moonlight.  Somewhere  on  one 
of  its  flat  roofs  a  merry  dinner-party  was  laugh 
ing,  drinking,  perhaps  regretting  his  absence, 
wondering  at  his  excuse  of  sudden  illness.  She 
was  there,  and  he  with  the  detective  like  a 
shadow  at  his  elbow,  was  sailing  out  of  her  life 
forever.  He  had  seen  her  for  the  last  time :  that 
morning  for  the  last  time  had  looked  into  her 
eyes,  had  held  her  hands  in  his.  He  saw  the 
white  beach,  the  white  fortress-like  walls,  the 
hanging  gardens,  the  courtesying  palms,  dimly. 
It  was  among  those  that  he  who  had  thought 
himself  content,  had  found  happiness,  and  had 
then  seen  it  desert  him  and  take  out  of  his  life 
pleasure  in  all  other  things.  With  a  pain  that 
seemed  impossible  to  support,  he  turned  his 
back  upon  Zanzibar  and  all  it  meant  to  him. 
And,  as  he  turned,  he  faced,  coming  toward 
him,  across  the  moonlit  deck,  Fearing. 

His  instinct  was  to  cry  out  to  the  man  in 
warning,  but  his  second  thought  showed  him 
that  through  his  very  effort  to  protect  the  other, 
he  might  bring  about  his  undoing.  So,  helpless 
to  prevent,  in  agitation  and  alarm,  he  waited 
in  silence.  Of  the  two  men,  Fearing  appeared 

133 


THE   MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

the  least  disturbed.  With  a  polite  but  author 
itative  gesture  he  turned  to  the  detective.  "I 
have  something  to  say  to  this  gentleman  before 
he  sails,"  he  said;  "would  you  kindly  stand 
over  there?" 

He  pointed  across  the  empty  deck  at  the 
other  rail. 

In  the  alert,  confident  young  man  in  the 
English  mess-jacket,  clean-shaven  and  bronzed 
by  the  suns  of  the  equator,  the  detective  saw 
no  likeness  to  the  pale,  bearded  bank  clerk  of 
the  New  England  city.  This,  he  guessed,  must 
be  some  English  official,  some  friend  of  Brown- 
ell's  who  generously  had  come  to  bid  the  un 
fortunate  fugitive  Godspeed. 

Assured  of  this,  the  detective  also  bowed  po 
litely,  and,  out  of  hearing,  but  with  his  prisoner 
in  full  view,  took  up  a  position  against  the  rail 
opposite. 

Turning  his  back  upon  the  detective,  and 
facing  Hemingway  with  his  eyes  close  to  his, 
Fearing  began  abruptly.  His  voice  was  sunk 
to  a  whisper,  but  he  spoke  without  the  slightest 
sign  of  trepidation,  without  the  hesitation  of  an 
instant. 

"Two  years  ago,  when  I  was  indicted,"  he 
whispered,  "and  ran  away,  Polly  paid  back 
half  of  the  sum  I  stole.  That  left  her  without 
a  penny;  that's  why  she  took  to  this  typewrite 

134 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

ing.  Since  then,  I  have  paid  back  nearly  all 
the  rest.  But  Polly  was  not  satisfied.  She 
wanted  me  to  take  my  punishment  and  start 
fresh.  She  knew  they  were  watching  her  so 
she  couldn't  write  this  to  me,  but  she  came  to 
me  by  a  roundabout  way,  taking  a  year  to  get 
here.  And  all  the  time  she's  been  here,  she's 
been  begging  me  to  go  back  and  give  myself  up. 
I  couldn't  see  it.  I  knew  in  a  few  months  I'd 
have  paid  back  all  I  took,  and  I  thought  that 
was  enough.  I  wanted  to  keep  out  of  jail. 
But  she  said  I  must  take  my  medicine  in  our 
own  country,  and  start  square  with  a  clean 
slate.  She's  done  a  lot  for  me,  and  whether  I'd 
have  done  that  for  her  or  not,  I  don't  know. 
But  now,  I  must !  What  you  did  to-night  to 
save  me,  leaves  me  no  choice.  So,  I'll  sail " 

With  an  exclamation  of  anger,  Hemingway 
caught  the  other  by  the  shoulder  and  dragged 
him  closer. 

"To  save  you!'9  he  whispered.  "No  one's 
thinking  of  you.  I  didn't  do  it  for  you.  I  did 
it,  that  you  both  could  escape  together,  to  give 
you  time " 

"But  I  tell  you,"  protested  Fearing,  "she 
doesn't  want  me  to  escape.  And  maybe  she's 
right.  Anyway,  we're  sailing  with  you  at " 

"We?"  echoed  Hemingway. 

That  again  he  was  to  see  the  woman  he  loved, 
135 


TOE  MEN   OF  ZANZIBAR 

that  for  six  weeks  through  summer  seas  he 
would  travel  in  her  company,  filled  him  with 
alarm,  with  distress,  with  a  wonderful  happi 


ness. 
« 


We?"  he  whispered,  steadying  his  voice. 
"Then — then  your  wife  is  going  with  you?" 

Fearing  gazed  at  him  as  though  the  other  had 
suddenly  gone  mad. 

"My  wife!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  haven't  got  a 
wife!"  If  you  mean  Polly — Mrs.  Adair,  she 
is  my  sister!  And  she  wants  to  thank  you. 
She's  below " 

He  was  not  allowed  to  finish.  Hemingway 
had  flung  him  to  one  side,  and  was  racing  down 
the  deck. 

The  detective  sprang  in  pursuit. 

"One  moment,  there  I"  he  shouted. 

But  the  man  in  the  white  mess-jacket  barred 
his  way. 

In  the  moonlight  the  detective  saw  that  the 
alert,  bronzed  young  man  was  smiling. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Fearing.  "He'll  be 
back  in  a  minute.  Besides,  you  don't  want 
him.  I'm  the  man  you  want." 


136 


THE  LONG  ARM 

THE  safe  was  an  old  one  that  opened  with  a 
key.  As  adjutant,  Captain  Swanson  had  charge 
of  certain  funds  of  the  regiment  and  kept  in 
the  safe  about  five  thousand  dollars.  No  one 
but  himself  and  Rueff,  his  first  sergeant,  had 
access  to  it.  And  as  Rueff  proved  an  alibi,  the 
money  might  have  been  removed  by  an  out 
sider.  The  court-martial  gave  Swanson  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt,  and  a  reprimand  for  not 
taking  greater  care  of  the  keys,  and  Swanson 
made  good  the  five  thousand. 

Swanson  did  not  think  it  was  a  burglar  who 
had  robbed  the  safe.  He  thought  Rueff  had 
robbed  it,  but  he  could  not  possibly  prove  that. 
At  the  time  of  the  robbery  Rueff  was  outside 
the  Presidio,  in  uniform,  at  a  moving-picture 
show  in  San  Francisco.  A  dozen  people  savr 
him  there.  Besides,  Rueff  held  an  excellent 
record.  He  was  a  silent,  clerk-like  young  man, 
better  at  "paper  work"  than  campaigning,  but 
even  as  a  soldier  he  had  never  come  upon  the 
books.  And  he  had  seen  service  in  two  cam 
paigns,  and  was  supposed  to  cherish  ambitions 
toward  a  commission.  But,  as  he  kept  much 

137 


THE  LONG  ARM 

to  himself,  his  fellow  non-coms  could  only  guess 
that. 

On  his  captain's  account  he  was  loyally  dis 
tressed  over  the  court-martial,  and  in  his  testi 
mony  tried  to  shield  Swanson,  by  agreeing  heart 
ily  that  through  his  own  carelessness  the  keys 
might  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  some  one 
outside  the  post.  But  his  loyalty  could  not 
save  his  superior  officer  from  what  was  a  ver 
dict  virtually  of  "not  proven." 

It  was  a  most  distressing  affair,  and,  on  ac 
count  of  the  social  prominence  of  Swanson's 
people,  his  own  popularity,  and  the  name  he 
had  made  at  Batangas  and  in  the  Boxer  busi 
ness,  was  much  commented  upon,  not  only  in 
the  services,  but  by  the  newspapers  all  over  the 
United  States. 

Every  one  who  knew  Swanson  knew  the 
court-martial  was  only  a  matter  of  form.  Even 
his  enemies  ventured  only  to  suggest  that  over 
night  he  might  have  borrowed  the  money,  mean-, 
ing  to  replace  it  the  next  morning.  And  the 
only  reason  for  considering  this  explanation  was 
that  Swanson  was  known  to  be  in  debt.  For 
he  was  a  persistent  gambler.  Just  as  at  Pekin 
he  had  gambled  with  death  for  his  number,  in 
times  of  peace  he  gambled  for  money.  It  was 
always  his  own  money. 

From  the  start  Swanson's  own  attitude  to- 


THE  LONG  ARM 

ward  the  affair  was  one  of  blind,  unreasoning 
rage.  In  it  he  saw  no  necessary  routine  of  dis 
cipline,  only  crass,  ignorant  stupidity.  That 
any  one  should  suspect  him  was  so  preposter 
ous,  so  unintelligent,  as  to  be  nearly  comic. 
And  when,  instantly,  he  demanded  a  court  of 
inquiry,  he  could  not  believe  it  when  he  was 
summoned  before  a  court-martial.  It  sickened, 
wounded,  deeply  affronted  him;  turned  him 
quite  savage. 

On  his  stand  his  attitude  and  answers  were 
so  insolent  that  his  old  friend  and  classmate, 
Captain  Copley,  who  was  acting  as  his  counsel, 
would  gladly  have  kicked  him.  The  findings  of 
the  court-martial,  that  neither  cleared  nor  con 
demned,  and  the  reprimand,  were  an  intolerable 
insult  to  his  feelings,  and,  in  a  fit  of  bitter  dis 
gust  with  the  service  and  every  one  in  it,  Swan- 
son  resigned.  Of  course,  the  moment  he  had 
done  so  he  was  sorry.  Swanson's  thought  was 
that  he  could  no  longer  associate  with  any  one 
who  could  believe  him  capable  of  theft.  It  was 
his  idea  of  showing  his  own  opinion  of  himself 
and  the  army. 

But  no  one  saw  it  in  that  light.  On  the  con 
trary,  people  said:  "Swanson  has  been  allowed 
to  resign."  In  the  army,  voluntarily  resigning 
and  being  "allowed  to  resign"  lest  greater  evils 
befall,  are  two  vastly  different  things.  And 

139 


THE  LONG  ARM 

when  it  was  too  late  no  one  than  Swanson  saw 
that  more  clearly.  His  anger  gave  way  to  ex 
treme  morbidness.  He  believed  that  in  resign 
ing  he  had  assured  every  one  of  his  guilt.  In 
every  friend  and  stranger  he  saw  a  man  who 
doubted  him.  He  imagined  snubs,  rebuffs,  and 
coldnesses.  His  morbidness  fastened  upon  his 
mind  like  a  parasite  upon  a  tree,  and  the  brain 
sickened.  When  men  and  women  glanced  at 
his  alert,  well-set-up  figure  and  shoulders,  that 
even  when  he  wore  "cits"  seemed  to  support 
epaulets,  and  smiled  approvingly,  Swanson 
thought  they  sneered.  In  a  week  he  longed  to 
be  back  in  the  army  with  a  homesickness  that 
made  every  one  who  belonged  to  it  his  enemy. 

He  left  San  Francisco,  where  he  was  known 
to  all,  and  travelled  south  through  Texas,  and 
then  to  New  Orleans  and  Florida.  He  never 
could  recall  this  period  with  clearness.  He  re 
membered  changing  from  one  train  to  another, 
from  one  hotel  to  the  next.  Nothing  impressed 
itself  upon  him.  For  what  he  had  lost  nothing 
could  give  consolation.  Without  honor  life  held 
no  charm.  And  he  believed  that  in  the  eyes  of 
all  men  he  was  a  thief,  a  pariah,  and  an  outcast. 

He  had  been  in  Cuba  with  the  Army  of  Occu 
pation,  and  of  that  beautiful  island  had  grown 
foolishly  fond.  He  was  familiar  with  every  part 
of  it,  and  he  believed  in  one  or  another  of  its 

140 


THE  LONG  ARM 

pretty  ports  he  could  so  completely  hide  himself 
that  no  one  could  intrude  upon  his  misery.  In 
the  States,  in  the  newspapers  he  seemed  to  read 
only  of  those  places  where  he  had  seen  service, 
of  those  places  and  friends  and  associates  he 
most  loved.  In  the  little  Cuban  village  in  which 
he  would  bury  himself  he  would  cut  himself  off 
from  all  newspapers,  from  all  who  knew  him; 
from  those  who  had  been  his  friends,  and  those 
who  knew  his  name  only  to  connect  it  with  a 
scandal. 

On  his  way  from  Port  Tampa  to  Cuba  the 
boat  stopped  at  Key  West,  and  for  the  hour  in 
which  she  discharged  cargo  Swanson  went 
ashore  and  wandered  aimlessly.  The  little 
town,  reared  on  a  flat  island  of  coral  and  lime 
stone,  did  not  long  detain  him.  The  main 
street  of  shops,  eating-houses,  and  saloons,  the 
pretty  residences  with  overhanging  balconies, 
set  among  gardens  and  magnolia-trees,  were 
soon  explored,  and  he  was  returning  to  the  boat 
when  the  martial  music  of  a  band  caused  him 
to  halt.  A  side  street  led  to  a  great  gateway 
surmounted  by  an  anchor.  Beyond  it  Swanson 
saw  lawns  of  well-kept  grass,  regular  paths, 
pretty  cottages,  the  two-starred  flag  of  an  ad 
miral,  and,  rising  high  above  these,  like  four 
Eiffel  towers,  the  gigantic  masts  of  a  wireless. 
He  recognized  that  he  was  at  the  entrance  to 

141 


THE  LONG  ARM 

the  Key  West  naval  station,  and  turned  quickly 
away. 

He  walked  a  few  feet,  the  music  of  the  band 
still  in  his  ears.  In  an  hour  he  would  be  steam 
ing  toward  Cuba,  and,  should  he  hold  to  his 
present  purpose,  in  many  years  this  would  be 
the  last  time  he  would  stand  on  American  soil, 
would  see  the  uniform  of  his  country,  would 
hear  a  military  band  lull  the  sun  to  sleep.  It 
would  hurt,  but  he  wondered  if  it  were  not 
worth  the  hurt.  A  smart  sergeant  of  marines, 
in  passing,  cast  one  glance  at  the  man  who 
seemed  always  to  wear  epaulets,  and  brought 
his  hand  sharply  to  salute.  The  act  determined 
Swanson.  He  had  obtained  the  salute  under 
false  pretenses,  but  it  had  pleased,  not  hurt 
him.  He  turned  back  and  passed  into  the  gate 
of  the  naval  station. 

From  the  gate  a  grass-lined  carriage  drive  led 
to  the  waters  of  the  harbor  and  the  wharfs. 
At  its  extreme  end  was  the  band-stand,  flanked 
on  one  side  by  the  cottage  of  the  admiral,  on 
the  other  by  a  sail-loft  with  iron-barred  windows 
and  whitewashed  walls.  Upon  the  turf  were 
pyramids  of  cannon-balls  and,  laid  out  in  rows 
as  though  awaiting  burial,  old-time  muzzle- 
loading  guns.  Across  the  harbor  the  sun  was 
sinking  into  the  coral  reefs,  and  the  spring  air, 
still  warm  from  its  caresses,  was  stirred  by  the 

142 


THE  LONG  ARM 

music  of  the  band  into  gentle,  rhythmic  waves. 
The  scene  was  one  of  peace,  order,  and  content. 

But  as  Swanson  advanced,  the  measure  of  the 
music  was  instantly  shattered  by  a  fierce  volley 
of  explosions.  They  came  so  suddenly  and 
sharply  as  to  make  him  start.  It  was  as  though 
from  his  flank  a  quick-firing  gun  in  ambush  had 
opened  upon  him.  Swanson  smiled  at  having 
been  taken  unawares.  For  in  San  Francisco  he 
often  had  heard  the  roar  and  rattle  of  the  wire 
less.  But  never  before  had  he  listened  to  an 
attack  like  this. 

From  a  tiny  white-and-green  cottage,  squat 
ting  among  the  four  giant  masts,  came  the  roar 
of  a  forest  fire.  One  could  hear  the  crackle  of 
the  flames,  the  crash  of  the  falling  tree-trunks. 
The  air  about  the  cottage  was  torn  into  threads; 
beneath  the  shocks  of  the  electricity  the  lawn 
seemed  to  heave  and  tremble.  It  was  like  some 
giant  monster,  bound  and  fettered,  struggling 
to  be  free.  Now  it  growled  sullenly,  now  in 
impotent  rage  it  spat  and  spluttered,  now  it 
lashed  about  with  crashing,  stunning  blows.  It 
seemed  as  though  the  wooden  walls  of  the  sta 
tion  could  not  contain  it. 

From  the  road  Swanson  watched,  through  the 
open  windows  of  the  cottage,  the  electric  bolts 
flash  and  flare  and  disappear.  The  thing  ap 
pealed  to  his  imagination.  Its  power,  its  capa- 

143 


THE  LONG  ARM 

bilfties  fascinated  him.  In  it  he  saw  a  hungry 
monster  reaching  out  to  every  corner  of  the 
continent  and  devouring  the  news  of  the  world; 
feeding  upon  tales  of  shipwreck  and  disaster, 
lingering  over  some  dainty  morsel  of  scandal, 
snatching  from  ships  and  cities  two  thousand 
miles  away  the  thrice-told  tale  of  a  conflagra 
tion,  the  score  of  a  baseball  match,  the  fall  of  a 
cabinet,  the  assassination  of  a  king. 

In  a  sudden  access  of  fierceness,  as  though  in 
an  ecstasy  over  some  fresh  horror  just  received, 
it  shrieked  and  chortled.  And  then,  as  sud 
denly  as  it  had  broken  forth,  it  sank  to  silence, 
and  from  the  end  of  the  carriage  drive  again 
rose,  undisturbed,  the  music  of  the  band. 

The  musicians  were  playing  to  a  select  audi 
ence.  On  benches  around  the  band-stand  sat 
a  half  dozen  nurse-maids  with  knitting  in  their 
hands,  the  baby-carriages  within  arm's  length. 
On  the  turf  older  children  of  the  officers  were  at 
play,  and  up  and  down  the  paths  bareheaded 
girls,  and  matrons,  and  officers  in  uniform 
strolled  leisurely.  From  the  vine-covered  cot 
tage  of  Admiral  Preble,  set  in  a  garden  of  flow 
ering  plants  and  bending  palmettos,  came  the 
tinkle  of  tea-cups  and  the  ripple  of  laughter,  and 
at  a  respectful  distance,  seated  on  the  disman 
tled  cannon,  were  marines  in  khaki  and  blue 
jackets  in  glistening  white. 

144 


THE  LONG  ARM 

It  was  a  family  group,  and  had  not  Swanson 
recognized  among  the  little  audience  others  of 
the  passengers  from  the  steamer  and  natives  of 
the  town  who,  like  himself,  had  been  attracted 
by  the  music,  he  would  have  felt  that  he  in 
truded.  He  now  wished  to  remain.  He  want 
ed  to  carry  with  him  into  his  exile  a  memory 
of  the  men  in  uniform,  of  the  music,  and  pretty 
women,  of  the  gorgeous  crimson  sunset.  But, 
though  he  wished  to  remain,  he  did  not  wish  to 
be  recognized. 

From  the  glances  already  turned  toward  him, 
he  saw  that  in  this  little  family  gathering  the 
presence  of  a  stranger  was  an  event,  and  he  was 
aware  that  during  the  trial  the  newspapers  had 
made  his  face  conspicuous.  Also  it  might  be 
that  stationed  at  the  post  was  some  officer  or 
enlisted  man  who  had  served  with  him  in  Cuba, 
China,  or  the  Philippines,  and  who  might  point 
him  out  to  others.  Fearing  this,  Swanson  made 
a  detour  and  approached  the  band-stand  from 
the  wharf,  and  with  his  back  to  a  hawser-post 
seated  himself  upon  the  string-piece. 

He  was  overcome  with  an  intolerable  melan 
choly.  From  where  he  sat  he  could  see,  soft 
ened  into  shadows  by  the  wire  screens  of  the 
veranda,  Admiral  Preble  and  his  wife  and  their 
guests  at  tea.  A  month  before,  he  would  have 
reported  to  the  admiral  as  the  commandant  of 

145 


THE  LONG  ARM 

the  station,  and  paid  his  respects.  Now  he 
could  not  do  that;  at  least  not  without  inviting 
a  rebuff.  A  month  before,  he  need  only  have 
shown  his  card  to  the  admiral's  orderly,  and  the 
orderly  and  the  guard  and  the  officers'  mess 
and  the  admiral  himself  would  have  turned  the 
post  upside  down  to  do  him  honor.  But  of 
what  avail  now  was  his  record  in  three  cam 
paigns?  Of  what  avail  now  was  his  medal  of 
honor?  They  now  knew  him  as  Swanson,  who 
had  been  court-martialled,  who  had  been  al 
lowed  to  resign,  who  had  left  the  army  for  the 
army's  good;  they  knew  him  as  a  civilian  with 
out  rank  or  authority,  as  an  ex-officer  who  had 
robbed  his  brother  officers,  as  an  outcast. 

His  position,  as  his  morbid  mind  thus  dis 
torted  it,  tempted  Swanson  no  longer.  For 
being  in  this  plight  he  did  not  feel  that  in  any 
way  he  was  to  blame.  But  with  a  flaming 
anger  he  still  blamed  his  brother  officers  of  the 
court-martial  who  had  not  cleared  his  name 
and  with  a  clean  bill  of  health  restored  him  to 
duty.  Those  were  the  men  he  blamed;  not 
Rueff,  the  sergeant,  who  he  believed  had  robbed 
him,  nor  himself,  who,  in  a  passion  of  wounded 
pride,  had  resigned  and  so  had  given  reason  for 
gossip;  but  the  men  who  had  not  in  tones  like 
a  bugle-call  proclaimed  his  innocence,  who, 
when  they  had  handed  him  back  his  sword,  had 
given  it  grudgingly,  not  with  congratulation. 

146 


THE  LONG  ARM 

As  he  saw  it,  he  stood  in  a  perpetual  pillory. 
When  they  had  robbed  him  of  his  honor  they 
had  left  him  naked,  and  life  without  honor  had 
lost  its  flavor.  He  could  eat,  he  could  drink,  he 
could  exist.  He  knew  that  in  many  corners  of 
the  world  white  arms  would  reach  out  to  him 
and  men  would  beckon  him  to  a  place  at  table. 

But  he  could  not  cross  that  little  strip  of  turf 
between  him  and  the  chattering  group  on  the 
veranda  and  hand  his  card  to  the  admiral's 
orderly.  Swanson  loved  life.  He  loved  it  so 
that  without  help,  money,  or  affection  he  could 
each  morning  have  greeted  it  with  a  smile. 
But  life  without  honor !  He  felt  a  sudden  hot 
nausea  of  disgust.  Why  was  he  still  clinging  to 
what  had  lost  its  purpose,  to  what  lacked  the 
one  thing  needful? 

"  If  life  be  an  ill  thing,"  he  thought,  "  I  can 
lay  it  down !" 

The  thought  was  not  new  to  him,  and  during 
the  two  past  weeks  of  aimless  wandering  he  had 
carried  with  him  his  service  automatic.  To 
reassure  himself  he  laid  his  fingers  on  its  cold 
smooth  surface.  He  would  wait,  he  determined, 
until  the  musicians  had  finished  their  concert 
and  the  women  and  children  had  departed,  and 
then 

Then  the  orderly  would  find  him  where  he 
was  now  seated,  sunken  against  the  hawser-post 
with  a  hole  through  his  heart.  To  his  disor- 

147 


THE  LONG  ARM 

dered  brain  his  decision  appeared  quite  sane. 
He  was  sure  he  never  had  been  more  calm. 
And  as  he  prepared  himself  for  death  he  assured 
himself  that  for  one  of  his  standard  no  other 
choice  was  possible.  Thoughts  of  the  active 
past,  or  of  what  distress  in  the  future  his  act 
would  bring  to  others,  did  not  disturb  him. 
The  thing  had  to  be,  no  one  lost  more  heavily 
than  himself,  and  regrets  were  cowardly. 

He  counted  the  money  he  had  on  his  person 
and  was  pleased  to  find  there  was  enough  to 
pay  for  what  services  others  soon  must  render 
him.  In  his  pockets  were  letters,  cards,  a  cig 
arette-case,  each  of  which  would  tell  his  iden 
tity.  He  had  no  wish  to  conceal  it,  for  of  what 
he  was  about  to  do  he  was  not  ashamed.  It 
was  not  his  act.  He  would  not  have  died  "by 
his  own  hand."  To  his  unbalanced  brain  the 
officers  of  the  court-martial  were  responsible. 
It  was  they  who  had  killed  him.  As  he  saw  it, 
they  had  made  his  death  as  inevitable  as  though 
they  had  sentenced  him  to  be  shot  at  sunrise. 

A  line  from  "The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and 
Aft"  came  back  to  him.  Often  he  had  quoted 
it,  when  some  one  in  the  service  had  suffered 
through  the  fault  of  others.  It  was  the  death- 
cry  of  the  boy  officer,  Devlin.  The  knives  of 
the  Ghazi  had  cut  him  down,  but  it  was  his 
own  people's  abandoning  him  in  terror  that  had 

148 


THE  LONG  ARM 

killed  him.  And  so,  with  a  sob,  he  flung  the 
line  at  the  retreating  backs  of  his  comrades: 
"You've  killed  me,  you  cowards!" 

Swanson,  nursing  his  anger,  repeated  this 
savagely.  He  wished  he  could  bring  it  home 
to  those  men  of  the  court-martial.  He  wished 
he  could  make  them  know  that  his  death  lay 
at  their  door.  He  determined  that  they  should 
know.  On  one  of  his  visiting-cards  he  pen 
cilled: 

"To  the  Officers  of  my  Court-Martial : 
'You've  killed  me,  you  cowards!" 

He  placed  the  card  in  the  pocket  of  his  waist 
coat.  They  would  find  it  just  above  the  place 
where  the  bullet  would  burn  the  cloth. 

The  band  was  playing  "Auf  Wiedersehen," 
and  the  waltz  carried  with  it  the  sadness  that 
had  made  people  call  the  man  who  wrote  it  the 
waltz  king.  Swanson  listened  gratefully.  He 
was  glad  that  before  he  went  out,  his  last  mood 
had  been  of  regret  and  gentleness.  The  sting 
of  his  anger  had  departed,  the  music  soothed 
and  sobered  him.  It  had  been  a  very  good 
world.  Until  he  had  broken  the  spine  of  things 
it  had  treated  him  well,  far  better,  he  admitted, 
than  he  deserved.  There  were  many  in  it  who 
had  been  kind,  to  whom  he  was  grateful.  He 
wished  there  was  some  way  by  which  he  could 
let  them  know  that.  As  though  in  answer  to 

149 


THE   LONG  ARM 

his  wish,  from  across  the  parade-ground  the 
wireless  again  began  to  crash  and  crackle;  but 
now  Swanson  was  at  a  greater  distance  from  it, 
and  the  sighing  rhythm  of  the  waltz  was  not 
interrupted. 

Swanson  considered  to  whom  he  might  send 
a  farewell  message,  but  as  in  his  mind  he  passed 
from  one  friend  to  another,  he  saw  that  to  each 
such  a  greeting  could  bring  only  distress.  He 
decided  it  was  the  music  that  had  led  him 
astray.  This  was  no  moment  for  false  senti 
ment.  He  let  his  hand  close  upon  the  pistol. 

The  audience  now  was  dispersing.  The 
nurse-maids  had  collected  their  charges,  the 
musicians  were  taking  apart  their  music-racks, 
and  from  the  steps  of  the  vine-covered  veranda 
Admiral  Preble  was  bidding  the  friends  of  his 
wife  adieu.  At  his  side  his  aide,  young,  alert, 
confident,  with  ill-concealed  impatience  awaited 
their  departure.  Swanson  found  that  he  re 
sented  the  aide.  He  resented  the  manner  in 
which  he  speeded  the  parting  guests.  Even  if 
there  were  matters  of  importance  he  was  anxious 
to  communicate  to  his  chief,  he  need  not  make 
it  plain  to  the  women  folk  that  they  were  hi 
the  way. 

When,  a  month  before,  he  had  been  adjutant, 
in  a  like  situation  he  would  have  shown  more 
self-command.  He  disapproved  of  the  aide  en- 

150 


THE  LONG  ARM 

tirely.  He  resented  the  fact  that  he  was  as 
young  as  himself,  that  he  was  in  uniform,  that 
he  was  an  aide.  Swanson  certainly  hoped  that 
when  be  was  in  uniform  he  had  not  looked  so 
much  the  conquering  hero,  so  self-satisfied,  so 
supercilious.  With  a  smile  he  wondered  why, 
at  such  a  moment,  a  man  he  had  never  seen 
before,  and  never  would  see  again,  should  so 
disturb  him. 

In  his  heart  he  knew.  The  aide  was  going 
forward  just  where  he  was  leaving  off.  The 
ribbons  on  the  tunic  of  the  aide,  the  straps  on 
his  shoulders,  told  Swanson  that  'they  had 
served  in  the  same  campaigns,  that  they  were 
of  the  same  relative  rank,  and  that  when  he 
himself,  had  he  remained  in  the  service,  would 
have  been  a  brigadier-general  the  aide  would 
command  a  battle-ship.  The  possible  future  of 
the  young  sailor  filled  Swanson  with  honorable 
envy  and  bitter  regret.  With  all  his  soul  he 
envied  him  the  right  to  look  his  fellow  man  in 
the  eye,  his  right  to  die  for  his  country,  to 
give  his  life,  should  it  be  required  of  him,  for 
ninety  million  people,  for  a  flag.  Swanson  saw 
the  two  officers  dimly,  with  eyes  of  bitter  self- 
pity.  He  was  dying,  but  he  was  not  dying 
gloriously  for  a  flag.  He  had  lost  the  right  to 
die  for  it,  and  he  was  dying  because  he  had 
lost  that  right. 

151 


THE  LONG  ARM 

The  sun  had  sunk  and  the  evening  had  grown 
chill.  At  the  wharf  where  the  steamer  lay  on 
which  he  had  arrived,  but  on  which  he  was  not 
to  depart,  the  electric  cargo  lights  were  already 
burning.  But  for  what  Swanson  had  to  do 
there  still  was  light  enough.  From  his  breast 
pocket  he  took  the  card  on  which  he  had  writ 
ten  his  message  to  his  brother  officers,  read  and 
reread  it,  and  replaced  it. 

Save  for  the  admiral  and  his  aide  at  the  steps 
of  the  cottage,  and  a  bareheaded  bluejacket 
who  was  reporting  to  them,  and  the  admiral's 
orderly,  who  was  walking  toward  Swanson,  no 
one  was  in  sight.  Still  seated  upon  the  string- 
piece  of  the  wharf,  Swanson  so  moved  that  his 
back  was  toward  the  four  men.  The  moment 
seemed  propitious,  almost  as  though  it  had  been 
prearranged.  For  with  such  an  audience,  for 
his  taking  off  no  other  person  could  be  blamed. 
There  would  be  no  question  but  that  death  had 
been  self-inflicted. 

Approaching  from  behind  him  Swanson  heard 
the  brisk  steps  of  the  orderly  drawing  rapidly 
nearer.  He  wondered  if  the  wharf  were  govern 
ment  property,  if  he  were  trespassing,  and  if 
for  that  reason  the  man  had  been  sent  to  order 
him  away.  He  considered  bitterly  that  the 
government  grudged  him  a  place  even  in  which 
to  die.  Well,  he  would  not  for  long  be  a  tres- 

152 


THE  LONG  ARM 

passer.  His  hand  slipped  into  his  pocket,  with 
his  thumb  he  lowered  the  safety-catch  of  the 
pistol. 

But  the  hand  with  the  pistol  in  it  did  not 
leave  his  pocket.  The  steps  of  the  orderly  had 
come  to  a  sudden  silence.  Raising  his  head 
heavily,  Swanson  saw  the  man,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  him,  standing  at  salute.  They  had 
first  made  his  life  unsupportable,  Swanson 
thought,  now  they  would  not  let  him  leave  it. 

"Captain  Swanson,  sir?"  asked  the  orderly. 

Swanson  did  not  speak  or  move. 

"The  admiral's  compliments,  sir,"  snapped 
the  orderly,  "and  will  the  captain  please  speak 
with  him?" 

Still  Swanson  did  not  move. 

He  felt  that  the  breaking-point  of  his  self- 
control  had  come.  This  impertinent  interrup 
tion,  this  thrusting  into  the  last  few  seconds  of 
his  life  of  a  reminder  of  all  that  he  had  lost,  this 
futile  postponement  of  his  end,  was  cruel,  un- 
human,  unthinkable.  The  pistol  was  still  in 
his  hand.  He  had  but  to  draw  it  and  press  it 
close,  and  before  the  marine  could  leap  upon 
him  he  would  have  escaped. 

From  behind,  approaching  hurriedly,  came 
the  sound  of  impatient  footsteps. 

The  orderly  stiffened  to  attention.  "The 
admiral!"  he  warned. 

153 


THE  LONG  ARM 

Twelve  years  of  discipline,  twelve  years  of 
recognition  of  authority,  twelve  years  of  defer 
ence  to  superior  officers,  dragged  Swanson's 
hand  from  his  pistol  and  lifted  him  to  his  feet. 
As  he  turned,  Admiral  Preble,  the  aide,  and  the 
bareheaded  bluejacket  were  close  upon  him. 
The  admiral's  face  beamed,  his  eyes  were  young 
with  pleasurable  excitement;  with  the  eager 
ness  of  a  boy  he  waved  aside  formal  greetings. 

"My  dear  Swanson,"  he  cried,  "I  assure  you 
it's  a  most  astonishing,  most  curious  coinci 
dence!  See  this  man?"  He  flung  out  his  arm 
at  the  bluejacket.  "He's  my  wireless  chief. 
He  was  wireless  operator  on  the  transport  that 
took  you  to  Manila.  When  you  came  in  here 
this  afternoon  he  recognized  you.  Half  an  hour 
later  he  picks  up  a  message — picks  it  up  two 
thousand  miles  from  here — from  San  Francisco 
— Associated  Press  news — it  concerns  you;  that 
is,  not  really  concerns  you,  but  I  thought,  we 
thought" — as  though  signalling  for  help,  the 
admiral  glanced  unhappily  at  his  aide — "we 
thought  you'd  like  to  know.  Of  course,  to  us," 
he  added  hastily,  "it's  quite  superfluous — quite 
superfluous,  but " 

The  aide  coughed  apologetically.  "You 
might  read,  sir,"  he  suggested. 

"What?  Exactly!  Quite  so!"  cried  the 
admiral. 

154 


THE  LONG  ARM 

In  the  fading  light  he  held  close  to  his  eyes  a 
piece  of  paper. 

"San  Francisco,  April  20,"  he  read.  "Rueff, 
first  sergeant,  shot  himself  here  to-day,  leaving 
written  confession  theft  of  regimental  funds  for 
which  Swanson,  captain,  lately  court-martialled. 
Money  found  intact  in  RuefFs  mattress.  Inno 
cence  of  Swanson  never  questioned,  but  dissat 
isfied  with  findings  of  court-martial  has  left 
army.  Brother  officers  making  every  effort  to 
find  him  and  persuade  return." 

The  admiral  sighed  happily.  "And  my  wife," 
he  added,  with  an  impressiveness  that  was  in 
tended  to  show  he  had  at  last  arrived  at  the 
important  part  of  his  message,  "says  you  are 
to  stay  to  dinner." 

Abruptly,  rudely,  Swanson  swung  upon  his 
heel  and  turned  his  face  from  the  admiral.  His 
head  was  thrown  back,  his  arms  held  rigid  at 
his  sides.  In  slow,  deep  breaths,  like  one  who 
had  been  dragged  from  drowning,  he  drank  in 
the  salt,  chill  air.  After  one  glance  the  four 
men  also  turned,  and  in  the  falling  darkness 
stood  staring  at  nothing,  and  no  one  spoke. 

The  aide  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 
In  a  polite  tone,  as  though  he  were  continuing 
a  conversation  which  had  not  been  interrupted, 
he  addressed  the  admiral.  "Of  course,  Rueff's 
written  confession  was  not  needed,"  he  said. 

155 


THE  LONG  ARM 

"His  shooting  himself  proved  that  he  was 
guilty." 

Swanson  started  as  though  across  his  naked 
shoulders  the  aide  had  drawn  a  whip. 

In  penitence  and  gratitude  he  raised  his  eyes 
to  the  stars.  High  above  his  head  the  strands 
of  the  wireless,  swinging  from  the  towering 
masts  like  the  strings  of  a  giant  ^Eolian  harp, 
were  swept  by  the  wind  from  the  ocean.  To 
Swanson  the  sighing  and  whispering  wires  sang 
in  praise  and  thanksgiving. 


156 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

THE  God  of  Coincidence  is  fortunate  in  pos 
sessing  innumerable  press  agents.  They  have 
made  the  length  of  his  arm  a  proverb.  How  at 
exactly  the  right  moment  he  extends  it  across 
continents  and  drags  two  and  two  together,  thus 
causing  four  to  result  where  but  for  him  sixes 
and  sevens  would  have  obtained,  they  have 
made  known  to  the  readers  of  all  of  our  best 
magazines.  For  instance,  Holworthy  is  leaving 
for  the  Congo  to  find  a  cure  for  the  sleeping 
sickness,  and  for  himself  any  sickness  from 
which  one  is  warranted  never  to  wake  up.  This 
is  his  condition  because  the  beautiful  million- 
heiress  who  is  wintering  at  the  Alexander  Young 
Hotel  in  Honolulu  has  refused  to  answer  his 
letters,  cables,  and  appeals. 

He  is  leaning  upon  the  rail  taking  his  last 
neck-breaking  look  at  the  Woolworth  Building. 
The  going-ashore  bugle  has  sounded,  pocket- 
handkerchiefs  are  waving;  and  Joe  Hutton,  the 
last  visitor  to  leave  the  ship,  is  at  the  gangway. 

"Good-by,  Holworthy!"  he  calls.  "Where 
do  you  keep  yourself?  Haven't  seen  you  at 
the  club  in  a  year!" 

157 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

"Haven't  been  there  in  a  year — nor  mean 
to  I"  is  the  ungracious  reply  of  our  hero. 

"Then,  for  Heaven's  sake,"  exclaims  Hutton, 
"send  some  one  to  take  your  mail  out  of  the  H 
box !  Every  time  I  look  for  letters  I  wade 
through  yours." 

"Tear  them  up  !"  calls  Holworthy.  "They're 
bills." 

Hutton  now  is  half-way  down  the  gangplank. 

"Then  your  creditors,"  he  shouts  back,  "must 
all  live  at  the  Alexander  Young  Hotel  in  Hono 
lulu!" 

That  night  an  express  train  shrieking  through 
the  darkness  carried  with  it  toward  San  Fran 


cisco 

In  this  how  evident  is  the  fine  Italian  hand  of 
the  God  of  Coincidence ! 

Had  Hutton's  name  begun  with  an  M;  had 
the  H  in  Hutton  been  silent;  had  he  not  carried 
to  the  Mauretania  a  steamer  basket  for  his  rich 
aunt;  had  he  not  resented  the  fact  that  since 
Holworthy 's  election  to  the  Van  Sturtevant 
Club  he  had  ceased  to  visit  the  Grill  Club — a 
cure  for  sleeping  sickness  might  have  been  dis 
covered;  but  two  loving  hearts  never  would  have 
been  reunited  and  that  story  would  not  have 
been  written. 

Or,  Mrs.  Montclair,  with  a  suit-case,  is  leav 
ing  her  home  forever  to  join  handsome  Harry 

158 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

Bellairs,  who  is  at  the  corner  with  a  racing-car 
and  all  the  money  of  the  bank  of  which  he  has 
been  cashier.  As  the  guilty  woman  places  the 
farewell  letter  against  the  pin-cushion  where  her 
husband  will  be  sure  to  find  it,  her  infant  son 
turns  in  his  sleep  and  jabs  himself  with  a  pin. 
His  howl  of  anguish  resembles  that  of  a  puppy 
on  a  moonlight  night.  The  mother  recognizes 
her  master's  voice.  She  believes  her  child  dy 
ing,  flies  to  the  bedside,  tears  up  the  letter, 
unpacks  the  suit-case.  The  next  morning  at 
breakfast  her  husband,  reading  the  newspaper, 
exclaims  aloud: 

"Harry  Bellairs,"  he  cries,  "has  skipped  with 
the  bank's  money !  I  always  told  you  he  was 
not  a  man  you  ought  to  know." 

"His  manner  to  me,"  she  says  severely,  "al 
ways  was  that  of  a  perfect  gentleman." 

Again  coincidence  gets  the  credit.  Had  not 
the  child  tossed — had  not  at  the  critical  mo 
ment  the  safety  pin  proved  untrue  to  the  man 
who  invented  it — that  happy  family  reunion 
would  have  been  impossible. 

Or,  it  might  be  told  this  way : 

Old  Man  McCurdy,  the  Pig-Iron  King,  for 
bids  his  daughter  Gwendolyn  even  to  think  of 
marrying  poor  but  honest  Beef  Walters,  the 
baseball  pitcher,  and  denies  him  his  house.  The 
lovers  plan  an  elopement.  At  midnight  Beef  is 

159 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

to  stand  at  the  tradesman's  entrance  and  whistle 
"Waiting  at  the  Church";  and  down  the  silent 
stairs  Gwendolyn  is  to  steal  into  his  arms.  At 
the  very  same  hour  the  butler  has  planned  with 
the  policeman  on  fixed  post  to  steal  Mother 
McCurdy's  diamonds  and  pass  them  to  a  brother 
of  the  policeman,  who  is  to  wait  at  the  trades 
man's  entrance  and  whistle  "Waiting  for  the 
Robert  E.  Lee." 

This  sounds  improbable — especially  that  the 
policeman  would  allow  even  his  brother  to  get 
the  diamonds  before  he  did;  but,  with  the  God 
of  Coincidence  on  the  job,  you  shall  see  that  it 
will  all  come  out  right.  Beef  is  first  at  the  door. 
He  whistles.  The  butler — an  English  butler — 
with  no  ear  for  music,  shoves  into  his  hands 
tiaras  and  sunbursts.  Honest  Beef  hands  over 
the  butler  to  the  policeman  and  the  tiaras  to 
Mother  McCurdy. 

"How  can  I  reward  you?"  exclaims  the 
grateful  woman. 

"Your  daughter's  hand!" 

Again  the  God  of  Coincidence  scores  and 
Beef  Walters  is  credited  with  an  assist.  And 
for  preventing  the  robbery  McCurdy  has  the 
peg-post  cop  made  a  captain;  thus  enabling  him 
to  wear  diamonds  of  his  own  and  raising  him 
above  the  need  of  taking  them  from  others. 

These  examples  of  what  the  god  can  do  are 
1 60 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

mere  fiction;  the  story  that  comes  now  really 
happened.  It  also  is  a  story  of  coincidence. 
It  shows  how  this  time  the  long  arm  was 
stretched  out  to  make  two  young  people  happy; 
it  again  illustrates  that,  in  the  instruments  he 
chooses,  the  God  of  Coincidence  works  in  a 
mysterious  way  his  wonders  to  perform.  This 
time  the  tool  he  used  was  a  hat  of  green  felt. 

The  story  really  should  be  called  "The  Man 
in  the  Green  Hat." 

At  St.  James's  Palace  the  plenipotentiaries  of 
the  Allies  and  of  Turkey  were  trying  to  bring 
peace  to  Europe;  in  Russell  Square,  Blooms- 
bury,  Sam  Lowell  was  trying  to  arrange  a  peace 
with  Mrs.  Wroxton,  his  landlady.  The  ultima 
tum  of  the  Allies  was:  "Adrianople  or  fight!" 
The  last  words  of  Mrs.  Wroxton  were:  "Five 
pounds  or  move  out  I" 

Sam  did  not  have  five  pounds.  He  was  a 
stranger  in  London;  he  had  lost  his  position  in 
New  York  and  that  very  morning  had  refused 
to  marry  the  girl  he  loved — Polly  Seward,  the 
young  woman  the  Sunday  papers  called  "The 
Richest  Girl  in  America." 

For  any  man — for  one  day — that  would  seem 
to  be  trouble  enough;  but  to  the  Sultan  of  Tur 
key  that  day  brought  troubles  far  more  serious. 
And,  as  his  losses  were  Sam's  gain,  we  must 
follow  the  troubles  of  the  Sultan.  Until,  with 

161 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

the  aid  of  a  green  felt  hat,  the  God  of  Coinci 
dence  turns  the  misfortunes  of  the  Sultan  into 
a  fortune  for  Sam,  Sam  must  wait. 

From  the  first  days  of  the  peace  conference  it 
was  evident  there  was  a  leak.  The  negotiations 
had  been  opened  under  a  most  solemn  oath  of 
secrecy.  As  to  the  progress  of  the  conference, 
only  such  information  or  misinformation — if  the 
diplomats  considered  it  better — as  was  mutually 
agreed  upon  by  the  plenipotentiaries  was  given 
to  a  waiting  world.  But  each  morning,  in  addi 
tion  to  the  official  report  of  the  proceedings  of 
the  day  previous,  one  newspaper,  the  Times, 
published  an  account  which  differed  from  that 
in  every  other  paper,  and  which  undoubtedly 
came  from  the  inside.  In  details  it  was  far 
more  generous  than  the  official  report;  it  gave 
names,  speeches,  arguments;  it  described  the 
wordy  battles  of  the  diplomats,  the  concessions, 
bluffs,  bargains. 

After  three  days  the  matter  became  public 
scandal.  At  first,  the  plenipotentiaries  declared 
the  events  described  in  the  Times  were  invented 
each  evening  in  the  office  of  the  Times;  but  the 
proceedings  of  the  day  following  showed  the 
public  this  was  not  so. 

Some  one  actually  present  at  the  conference 
was  telling  tales  out  of  school.  These  tales 
were  cabled  to  Belgrade,  Sofia,  Athens,  Con- 

162 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

stantinople;  and  hourly  from  those  capitals  the 
plenipotentiaries  were  assailed  by  advice,  abuse, 
and  threats.  The  whole  world  began  to  take 
part  in  their  negotiations;  from  every  side  they 
were  attacked;  from  home  by  the  Young  Turks, 
or  the  On  to  Constantinople  Party;  and  from 
abroad  by  peace  societies,  religious  bodies,  and 
chambers  of  commerce.  Even  the  armies  in 
the  field,  instead  of  waiting  for  the  result  of 
their  deliberations,  told  them  what  to  do,  and 
that  unless  they  did  it  they  would  better  remain 
in  exile.  To  make  matters  worse,  in  every  stock 
exchange  gambling  on  the  news  furnished  by 
the  Times  threatened  the  financial  peace  of 
Europe.  To  work  under  such  conditions  of 
publicity  was  impossible.  The  delegates  ap 
pealed  to  their  hosts  of  the  British  Foreign  Office. 
Unless  the  chiel  amang  them  takin*  notes 
was  discovered  and  the  leak  stopped,  they  de 
clared  the  conference  must  end.  Spurred  on  by 
questions  in  Parliament,  by  appeals  from  the 
great  banking  world,  by  criticisms  not  altogether 
unselfish  from  the  other  newspapers,  the  For 
eign  Office  surrounded  St.  James's  Palace  and 
the  office  of  the  Times  with  an  army  of  spies. 
Every  secretary,  stenographer,  and  attendant 
at  the  conference  was  under  surveillance,  his 
past  record  looked  into,  his  present  comings  and 
goings  noted.  Even  the  plenipotentiaries  them- 

163 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

selves  were  watched;  and  employees  of  the 
Times  were  secretly  urged  to  sell  the  govern 
ment  the  man  who  was  selling  secrets  to  them. 
But  those  who  were  willing  to  be  "urged5*  did 
not  know  the  man;  those  who  did  know  him 
refused  to  be  bought. 

By  a  process  of  elimination  suspicion  finally 
rested  upon  one  Adolf  Hertz,  a  young  Hun 
garian  scholar  who  spoke  and  wrote  all  the 
mongrel  languages  of  the  Balkans;  who  for 
years,  as  a  copying  clerk  and  translator,  had 
been  employed  by  the  Foreign  Office,  and  who 
now  by  it  had  been  lent  to  the  conference.  For 
the  reason  that  when  he  lived  in  Budapest  he 
was  a  correspondent  of  the  Times,  the  police,  in 
seeking  for  the  leak,  centred  their  attention 
upon  Hertz.  But,  though  every  moment  he 
was  watched,  and  though  Hertz  knew  he  was 
watched,  no  present  link  between  him  and  the 
Times  had  been  established — and  this  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  the  hours  during  which  it  was 
necessary  to  keep  him  under  closest  observation 
were  few.  Those  were  the  hours  between  the 
closing  of  the  conference,  and  midnight,  when 
the  provincial  edition  of  the  Times  went  to 
press.  For  the  remainder  of  the  day,  so  far  as 
the  police  cared,  Hertz  could  go  to  the  devil ! 
But  for  those  hours,  except  when  on  his  return 
from  the  conference  he  locked  himself  in  his 

164 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

lodgings  in  Jermyn  Street,  detectives  were  al 
ways  at  his  elbow. 

It  was  supposed  that  it  was  during  this  brief 
period  when  he  was  locked  in  his  room  that  he 
wrote  his  report;  but  how,  later,  he  conveyed  it 
to  the  Times  no  one  could  discover.  In  his 
rooms  there  was  no  telephone;  his  doors  and 
windows  were  openly  watched;  and  after  leaving 
his  rooms  his  movements  were — as  they  always 
had  been — methodical,  following  a  routine  open 
to  observation.  His  programme  was  invariably 
the  same.  Each  night  at  seven  from  his  front 
door  he  walked  west.  At  Regent  Street  he 
stopped  to  buy  an  evening  paper  from  the  aged 
news- vender  at  the  corner;  he  then  crossed  Pic 
cadilly  Circus  into  Coventry  Street,  skirted 
Leicester  Square,  and  at  the  end  of  Green 
Street  entered  Pavoni's  Italian  restaurant. 
There  he  took  his  seat  always  at  the  same  table, 
hung  his  hat  always  on  the  same  brass  peg, 
ordered  the  same  Hungarian  wine,  and  read  the 
same  evening  paper.  He  spoke  to  no  one;  no 
one  spoke  to  him. 

When  he  had  finished  his  coffee  and  his  cig 
arette  he  returned  to  his  lodgings,  and  there  he 
remained  until  he  rang  for  breakfast.  From 
the  time  at  which  he  left  his  home  until  his 
return  to  it  he  spoke  to  only  two  persons — the 
news-vender  to  whom  he  handed  a  halfpenny; 

165 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

the  waiter  who  served  him  the  regular  table 
d'hote  dinner — between  whom  and  Hertz  noth 
ing  passed  but  three  and  six  for  the  dinner  and 
sixpence  for  the  waiter  himself. 

Each  evening,  the  moment  he  moved  into  the 
street  a  plain-clothes  man  fell  into  step  beside 
him;  another  followed  at  his  heels;  and  from 
across  the  street  more  plain-clothes  men  kept 
their  eyes  on  every  one  approaching  him  in 
front  or  from  the  rear.  When  he  bought  his 
evening  paper  six  pairs  of  eyes  watched  him 
place  a  halfpenny  in  the  hand  of  the  news- 
vender,  and  during  the  entire  time  of  his  stay 
in  Pavoni's  every  mouthful  he  ate  was  noted— 
every  direction  he  gave  the  waiter  was  over 
heard. 

Of  this  surveillance  Hertz  was  well  aware. 
To  have  been  ignorant  of  it  would  have  argued 
him  blind  and  imbecile.  But  he  showed  no 
resentment.  With  eyes  grave  and  untroubled, 
he  steadily  regarded  his  escort;  but  not  by  the 
hastening  of  a  footstep  or  the  acceleration  of  a 
gesture  did  he  admit  that  by  his  audience  he 
was  either  distressed  or  embarrassed.  That  was 
the  situation  on  the  morning  when  the  Treaty 
of  London  was  to  be  signed  and  sealed. 

In  spite  of  the  publicity  given  to  the  confer 
ence  by  the  Times,  however,  what  the  terms  of 
the  treaty  might  be  no  one  knew.  If  Adriano- 

166 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

pie  were  surrendered;  if  Salonika  were  given  to 
Greece;  if  Servia  obtained  a  right-of-way  to 
the  Adriatic — peace  was  assured;  but,  should 
the  Young  Turks  refuse — should  Austria  prove 
obstinate — not  only  would  the  war  continue, 
but  the  Powers  would  be  involved,  and  that 
greater,  more  awful  war — the  war  dreaded  by 
all  the  Christian  world — might  turn  Europe 
into  a  slaughter-house. 

-Would  Turkey  and  Austria  consent  and  peace 
ensue?  Would  they  refuse  and  war  follow? 
That  morning  those  were  the  questions  on  the 
lips  of  every  man  in  London  save  one.  He  was 
Sam  Lowell;  and  he  was  asking  himself  another 
and  more  r  ^rsonal  question:  "How  can  I  find 
five  pounds  and  pacify  Mrs.  Wroxton?" 

He  had  friends  in  New  York  who  would  cable 
him  money  to  pay  his  passage  home;  but  he 
did  not  want  to  go  home.  He  preferred  to 
starve  in  London  than  be  vulgarly  rich  any 
where  else.  That  was  not  because  he  loved 
London,  but  because  above  everything  in  life 
he  loved  Polly  Seward — and  Polly  Seward  was 
in  London.  He  had  begun  to  love  her  on  class 
day  of  his  senior  year;  and,  after  his  father  died 
and  left  him  with  no  one  else  to  care  for,  every 
day  he  had  loved  her  more. 

Until  a  month  before  he  had  been  in  the  office 
of  Wetmore  &  Hastings,  a  smart  brokers'  firm 

167 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

in  Wall  Street.  He  had  obtained  the  position 
not  because  he  was  of  any  use  to  Wetmore  & 
Hastings,  but  because  the  firm  was  the  one 
through  which  his  father  had  gambled  the 
money  that  would  otherwise  have  gone  to 
Sam.  In  giving  Sam  a  job  the  firm  thought  it 
was  making  restitution.  Sam  thought  it  was 
making  the  punishment  fit  the  crime;  for  he 
knew  nothing  of  the  ways  of  Wall  Street,  and 
having  to  learn  them  bored  him  extremely. 
He  wanted  to  write  stories  for  the  magazines. 
He  wanted  to  bind  them  in  a  book  and  dedicate 
them  to  Polly.  And  in  this  wish  editors  hu 
mored  him — but  not  so  many  editors  or  with 
such  enthusiasm  as  to  warrant  his  turning  his 
back  on  Wall  Street. 

That  he  did  later  when,  after  a  tour  of  the 
world  that  had  begun  from  the  San  Francisco 
side,  Polly  Seward  and  her  mother  and  Senator 
Seward  reached  Naples.  There  Senator  Sew 
ard  bought  old  Italian  furniture  for  his  office 
on  the  twenty-fifth  floor  of  the  perfectly  new 
Seward  building.  Mrs.  Seward  tried  to  buy  for 
Polly  a  prince  nearly  as  old  as  the  furniture, 
and  Polly  bought  picture  post-cards  which  she 
sent  to  Sam. 

Polly  had  been  absent  six  months,  and  Sam's 
endurance  had  been  so  timed  as  just  to  last 
out  the  half-year.  It  was  not  guaranteed  to 

1 68 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

withstand  any  change  of  schedule,  and  the  two 
months'  delay  in  Italy  broke  his  heart.  It 
could  not  run  overtime  on  a  starvation  diet  of 
post-cards;  so  when  he  received  a  cable  reading, 
"Address  London,  Claridge's,"  his  heart  told 
him  it  could  no  longer  wait — and  he  resigned 
his  position  and  sailed. 

On  her  trip  round  the  world  Polly  had  learned 
many  things.  She  was  observant,  alert,  intent 
on  asking  questions,  hungering  for  facts.  And 
a  charming  young  woman  who  seeks  facts  rather 
than  attention  will  never  lack  either.  But  of 
all  the  facts  Polly  collected,  the  one  of  surpass 
ing  interest,  and  which  gave  her  the  greatest 
happiness,  was  that  she  could  not  live, without 
Sam  Lowell.  She  had  suspected  this,  and  it 
was  partly  to  make  sure  that  she  had  consented 
to  the  trip  round  the  world.  Now  that  she  had 
made  sure,  she  could  not  too  soon  make  up  for 
the  days  lost.  Sam  had  spent  his  money,  and 
he  either  must  return  to  New  York  and  earn 
more  or  remain  near  Polly  and  starve.  It  was 
an  embarrassing  choice.  Polly  herself  made  the 
choice  even  more  difficult. 

One  morning  when  they  walked  in  St.  James's 
Park  to  feed  the  ducks  she  said  to  him : 

"Sam,  when  are  we  to  be  married?" 

When  for  three  years  a  man  has  been  begging 
a  girl  to  marry  him,  and  she  consents  at  the 

169 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

exact  moment  when,  without  capitulation  to 
all  that  he  holds  honorable,  he  cannot  marry 
anybody,  his  position  deserves  sympathy. 

"My  dear  one,"  exclaimed  the  unhappy 
youth,  "you  make  me  the  most  miserable  of 
men  !  I  can't  marry !  I'm  in  an  awful  place ! 
If  I  married  you  now  I'd  be  a  crook!  It  isn't 
a  question  of  love  in  a  cottage,  with  bread  and 
cheese.  If  cottages  were  renting  for  a  dollar  a 
year  I  couldn't  rent  one  for  ten  minutes.  I 
haven't  cheese  enough  to  bait  a  mouse-trap. 
It's  terrible !  But  we  have  got  to  wait." 

"Wait!"  cried  Polly.  "I  thought  you  had 
been  waiting!  Have  I  been  away  too  long? 
Do  you  love  some  one  else?" 

"Don't  be  ridiculous!"  said  Sam  crossly. 
"Look  at  me,"  he  commanded,  "and  tell  me 
whom  I  love!" 

Polly  did  not  take  time  to  look. 

"But  I,"  she  protested,  "have  so  much 
money!" 

"It's  not  your  money,"  explained  Sam.  "It's 
your  mother's  money  or  your  father's,  and 
both  of  them  dislike  me.  They  even  have  told 
me  so.  Your  mother  wants  you  to  marry  that 
Italian;  and  your  father,  having  half  the  money 
in  America,  naturally  wants  to  marry  you  to 
the  other  half.  If  I  were  selfish  and  married 
you  I'd  be  all  the  things  they  think  I  am." 

170 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

"You  are  selfish!"  cried  Polly.  "You're 
thinking  of  yourself  and  of  what  people  will 
say,  instead  of  how  to  make  me  happy.  What's 
the  use  of  money  if  you  can't  buy  what  you 
want?" 

"Are  you  suggesting  you  can  buy  me?"  de 
manded  Sam. 

"Surely,"  said  Polly — "if  I  can't  get  you  any 
other  way.  And  you  may  name  your  own 
price,  too." 

"When  I  am  making  enough  to  support  my 
self  without  sponging  on  you,"  explained  Sam, 
"you  can  have  as  many  millions  as  you  like; 
but  I  must  first  make  enough  to  keep  me  alive. 
A  man  who  can't  do  that  isn't  fit  to  marry." 

"How  much,"  demanded  Polly,  "do  you  need 

to  keep  you  alive?     Maybe  I  could  lend  it  to 

» 
you. 

Sam  was  entirely  serious. 

"Three  thousand  a  year,"  he  said. 

Polly  exclaimed  indignantly. 

"I  call  that  extremely  extravagant!"  she 
cried.  "If  we  wait  until  you  earn  three  thou 
sand  a  year  we  may  be  dead.  Do  you  expect 
to  earn  that  writing  stories?" 

"I  can  try,"  said  Sam — "or  I  will  rob  a 
bank." 

Polly  smiled  upon  him  appealingly. 

"You  know  how  I  love  your  stories,"  she 
171 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

said,  "and  I  wouldn't  hurt  your  feelings  for  the 
world;  but,  Sam  dear,  I  think  you  had  better 
rob  a  bank!" 

Addressing  an  imaginary  audience,  suppos 
edly  of  men,  Sam  exclaimed: 

"Isn't  that  just  like  a  woman?  She  wouldn't 
care,"  he  protested,  "how  I  got  the  money!" 

Polly  smiled  cheerfully. 

"Not  if  I  got  you!"  she  said.  In  extenua 
tion,  also,  she  addressed  an  imaginary  audience, 
presumably  of  women.  "That's  how  I  love 
him!"  she  exclaimed.  "And  he  asks  me  to 
wait!  Isn't  that  just  like  a  man?  Seriously," 
she  went  on,  "if  we  just  go  ahead  and  get  mar 
ried  father  would  have  to  help  us.  He'd  make 
you  a  vice-president  or  something." 

At  this  suggestion  Sam  expressed  his  extreme 
displeasure. 

"The  last  time  I  talked  to  your  father,"  he 
said,  "I  was  in  a  position  to  marry,  and  I  told 
him  I  wanted  to  marry  you.  What  he  said  to 
that  was:  *  Don't  be  an  ass!'  Then  I  told  him 
he  was  unintelligent — and  I  told  him  why. 
First,  because  he  could  not  see  that  a  man 
might  want  to  marry  his  daughter  in  spite  of 
her  money;  and  second,  because  he  couldn't  see 
that  her  money  wouldn't  make  up  to  a  man  for 
having  him  for  a  father-in-law." 

"Did  you  have  to  tell  him  that?"  asked  Polly. 
172 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

"Some  one  had  to  tell  him,"  said  Sam  gloom 
ily.  "Anyway,  as  a  source  of  revenue  father 
is  eliminated.  I  have  still  one  chance  in  Lon 
don.  If  that  fails  I  must  go  home.  I've  been 
promised  a  job  in  New  York  reporting  for  a 
Wall  Street  paper — and  I'll  write  stories  on  the 
side.  I've  cabled  for  money,  and  if  the  Lon 
don  job  falls  through  I  shall  sail  Wednesday." 

"Wednesday!"  cried  Polly.  "When  you  say 
things  like  *  Wednesday'  you  make  the  world  so 
dark !  You  must  stay  here !  It  has  been  such 
a  long  six  months;  and  before  you  earn  three 
thousand  dollars  I  shall  be  an  old,  old  maid. 
But  if  you  get  work  here  we  could  see  each 
other  every  day." 

They  were  in  the  Sewards'  sitting-room  at 
Claridge's.  Sam  took  up  the  desk  telephone. 

"In  London,"  he  said,  "my  one  best  and 
only  bet  is  a  man  named  Forsythe,  who  helps 
edit  the  Pall  Mall.  I'll  telephone  him  now. 
If  he  can  promise  me  even  a  shilling  a  day  I'll 
stay  on  and  starve — but  I'll  be  near  you.  If 
Forsythe  fails  me  I  shall  sail  Wednesday." 

The  telephone  call  found  Forsythe  at  the  Pall 
Mall  office.  He  would  be  charmed  to  advise 
Mr.  Lowell  on  a  matter  of  business.  Would  he 
that  night  dine  with  Mr.  Lowell?  He  would. 
And  might  he  suggest  that  they  dine  at  Pa- 
voni's?  He  had  a  special  reason  for  going 

173 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

there,  and  the  dinner  would  cost  only  three  and 
six. 

"That's  reason  enough!"  Sam  told  him. 

"And  don't  forget,"  said  Polly  when,  for  the 
fifth  time,  Sam  rose  to  go,  "that  after  your 
dinner  you  are  to  look  for  me  at  the  Duchess 
of  Deptford's  dance.  I  asked  her  for  a  card 
and  you  will  find  it  at  your  lodgings.  Every 
body  will  be  there;  but  it  is  a  big  place — full  of 
dark  corners  where  we  can  hide." 

"Don't  hide  until  I  arrive,"  said  Sam.  "I 
shall  be  very  late,  as  I  shall  have  to  walk. 
After  I  pay  for  Forsythe's  dinner  and  for  white 
gloves  for  your  dance  I  shall  not  be  in  a  posi 
tion  to  hire  a  taxi.  But  maybe  I  shall  bring 
good  news.  Maybe  Forsythe  will  give  me  the 
job.  If  he  does  we  will  celebrate  in  cham 
pagne." 

"You  will  let  me  at  least  pay  for  the  cham 
pagne?"  begged  Polly. 

"No,"  said  Sam  firmly — "the  duchess  will 
furnish  that." 

When  Sam  reached  his  lodgings  in  Russell 
Square,  which  he  approached  with  considerable 
trepidation,  he  found  Mrs.  Wroxton  awaiting 
him.  But  her  attitude  no  longer  was  hostile. 
On  the  contrary,  as  she  handed  him  a  large, 
square  envelope,  decorated  with  the  strawberry 
leaves  of  a  duke,  her  manner  was  humble. 

174 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

Sam  opened  the  envelope  and,  with  apparent 
carelessness,  stuck  it  over  the  fireplace. 

"About  that  back  rent,"  he  said;  "I  have 
cabled  for  money,  and  as  soon " 

"I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Wroxton.  "I  read  the 
cable."  She  was  reading  the  card  of  invitation 
also.  "There's  no  hurry,  sir,"  protested  Mrs. 
Wroxton.  "Any  of  my  young  gentlemen  who 
is  made  welcome  at  Deptford  House  is  made 
welcome  here!" 

"Credit,  Mrs.  Wroxton,"  observed  Sam,  "is 
better  than  cash.  If  you  have  only  cash  you 
spend  it  and  nothing  remains.  But  with  credit 
you  can  continue  indefinitely  to — to " 

"So  you  can!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wroxton  en 
thusiastically.  "Stay  as  long  as  you  like,  Mr. 
Lowell." 

At  Pavoni's  Sam  found  Forsythe  already 
seated  and,  with  evident  interest,  observing  the 
scene  of  gayety  before  him.  The  place  was 
new  to  Sam,  and  after  the  darkness  and  snow 
of  the  streets  it  appeared  both  cheerful  and 
resplendent.  It  was  brilliantly  lighted;  a  ceil 
ing  of  gay  panels  picked  out  with  gold,  and  red 
plush  sofas,  backed  against  walls  hung  with 
mirrors  and  faced  by  rows  of  marble-topped 
tables,  gave  it  an  air  of  the  Continent. 

Sam  surrendered  his  hat  and  coat  to  the 
waiter.  The  hat  was  a  soft  Alpine  one  of  green 

175 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

felt.  The  waiter  hung  it  where  Sam  could  see 
rt,  on  one  of  many  hooks  that  encircled  a  gilded 
pillar. 

After  two  courses  had  been  served  Forsythe 
said: 

"I  hope  you  don't  object  to  this  place.  I 
had  a  special  reason  for  wishing  to  be  here  on 
this  particular  night.  I  wanted  to  be  in  at  the 
death!" 

"Whose  death?"  asked  Sam.  "Is  the  din 
ner  as  bad  as  that?" 

Forsythe  leaned  back  against  the  mirror  be 
hind  them  and,  bringing  his  shoulder  close  to 
Sam's,  spoke  in  a  whisper. 

"As  you  know,"  he  said,  "to-day  the  dele 
gates  sign  the  Treaty  of  London.  It  still  must 
receive  the  signatures  of  the  Sultan  and  the 
three  kings;  and  they  will  sign  it.  But  until 
they  do,  what  the  terms  of  the  treaty  are  no 
one  can  find  out." 

"I'll  bet  the  Times  finds  out!"  said  Sam. 

"That's  it !"  returned  Forsythe.  "Hertz,  the 
man  who  is  supposed  to  be  selling  the  secrets 
of  the  conference  to  the  Times,  dines  here. 
To-night  is  his  last  chance.  If  to-night  he  can 
slip  the  Times  a  copy  of  the  Treaty  of  London 
without  being  caught,  and  the  Times  has  the 
courage  to  publish  it,  it  will  be  the  biggest  news 
paper  sensation  of  modern  times;  and  it  will 

176 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

either  cause  a  financial  panic  all  over  Europe — 
or  prevent  one.  The  man  they  suspect  is  fac 
ing  us.  Don't  look  now,  but  in  a  minute  you 
will  see  him  sitting  alone  at  a  table  on  the  right 
of  the  middle  pillar.  The  people  at  the  tables 
nearest  him — even  the  women — are  detectives. 
His  waiter  is  in  the  employ  of  Scotland  Yard. 
The  maftre  d' hotel,  whom  you  will  see  always 
hovering  round  his  table,  is  a  police  agent  lent 
by  Bulgaria.  For  the  Allies  are  even  more 
anxious  to  stop  the  leak  than  we  are.  We  are 
interested  only  as  their  hosts;  with  them  it  is 
a  matter  of  national  life  or  death.  A  week  ago 
one  of  our  own  inspectors  tipped  me  off  to 
what  is  going  on,  and  every  night  since  then 
I've  dined  here,  hoping  to  see  something  sus 
picious." 

"Have  you?"  asked  Sam. 

"Only  this,"  whispered  Forsythe — "on  four 
different  nights  I've  recognized  men  I  know  are 
on  the  staff  of  the  Times,  and  on  the  other 
nights  men  I  don't  know  may  have  been  here. 
But  after  all  that  proves  nothing,  for  this  place 
is  a  resort  of  newspaper  writers  and  editors — 
and  the  Times  men's  being  here  may  have  been 
only  a  coincidence." 

"And  Hertz?"  asked  Sam — "what  does  he 
do?" 

The  Englishman  exclaimed  with  irritation. 
177 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

"Just  what  you  see  him  doing  now  I"  he  pro 
tested.  "He  eats  his  dinner!  Look  at  him!" 
he  commanded.  "Of  all  in  the  room  he's  the 
least  concerned." 

Sam  looked  and  saw  the  suspected  Adolf 
Hertz  dangling  a  mass  of  macaroni  on  the  end 
of  his  fork.  Sam  watched  him  until  it  disap 
peared. 

"Maybe  that's  a  signal!"  suggested  Sam. 
"Maybe  everything  he  does  is  part  of  a  cipher 
code !  He  gives  the  signals  and  the  Times  men 
read  them  and  write  them  down." 

"A  man  would  have  a  fine  chance  to  write 
anything  down  in  this  room!"  said  Forsythe. 

"But  maybe,"  persisted  Sam,  "when  he 
makes  those  strange  movements  with  his  lips 
he  is  talking  to  a  confederate  who  can  read  the 
lip  language.  The  confederate  writes  it  down 
at  the  office  and " 

"Fantastic  and  extremely  improbable!"  com 
mented  Forsythe.  "But,  nevertheless,  the  fact 
remains,  the  fellow  does  communicate  with 
some  one  from  the  Times;  and  the  police  are 
positive  he  does  it  here  and  that  he  is  doing 
it  now!" 

The  problem  that  so  greatly  disturbed  his 
friend  would  have  more  deeply  interested  Sam 
had  the  solving  of  his  own  trouble  been  less 
imperative.  That  alone  filled  his  mind.  And 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

when  the  coffee  was  served  and  the  cigars  lit, 
without  beating  about  the  bush  Sam  asked 
Forsythe  bluntly  if  on  his  paper  a  rising  and 
impecunious  genius  could  find  a  place.  With 
even  less  beating  about  the  bush  Forsythe  as 
sured  him  he  could  not.  The  answer  was  final, 
and  the  disappointment  was  so  keen  that  Sam 
soon  begged  his  friend  to  excuse  him,  paid  his 
bill,  and  rose  to  depart. 

"  Better  wart ! "  urged  Forsythe.  "  You'll  find 
nothing  so  good  out  at  a  music-hall.  This  is 
Houdini  getting  out  of  his  handcuffs  before  an 
audience  entirely  composed  of  policemen." 

Sam  shook  his  head  gloomily. 

"  I  have  a  few  handcuffs  of  my  own  to  get  rid 
of,"  he  said,  "and  it  makes  me  poor  company." 

He  bade  his  friend  good  night  and,  picking 
his  way  among  the  tables,  moved  toward  the 
pillar  on  which  the  waiter  had  hung  his  hat. 
The  pillar  was  the  one  beside  which  Hertz  was 
sitting,  and  as  Sam  approached  the  man  he 
satisfied  his  curiosity  by  a  long  look.  Under 
the  glance  Hertz  lowered  his  eyes  and  fixed 
them  upon  his  newspaper.  Sam  retrieved  his 
hat  and  left  the  restaurant. 

His  mind  immediately  was  overcast.  He 
remembered  his  disappointment  and  that  the 
parting  between  himself  and  Polly  was  now 
inevitable.  Without  considering  his  direction 

179 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

he  turned  toward  Charing  Cross  Road.  But  he 
was  not  long  allowed  to  meditate  undisturbed. 

He  had  only  crossed  the  little  street  that 
runs  beside  the  restaurant  and  passed  into  the 
shadow  of  the  National  Gallery  when,  at  the 
base  of  the  Irving  Memorial,  from  each  side  he 
was  fiercely  attacked.  A  young  man  of  emi 
nently  respectable  appearance  kicked  his  legs 
from  under  him,  and  another  of  equally  impec 
cable  exterior  made  an  honest  effort  to  knock 
off  his  head. 

Sam  plunged  heavily  to  the  sidewalk.  As  he 
sprawled  forward  his  hat  fell  under  him  and 
in  his  struggle  to  rise  was  hidden  by  the  skirts 
of  his  greatcoat.  That,  also,  he  had  fallen 
heavily  upon  his  hat  with  both  knees  Sam  did 
not  know.  The  strange  actions  of  his  assailants 
enlightened  him.  To  his  surprise,  instead  of 
continuing  their  assault  or  attempting  a  raid 
upon  his  pockets,  he  found  them  engaged  solely 
in  tugging  at  the  hat.  And  so  preoccupied 
were  they  in  this  that,  though  still  on  his  knees, 
Sam  was  able  to  land  some  lusty  blows  before 
a  rush  of  feet  caused  the  young  men  to  leap  to 
their  own  and,  pursued  by  several  burly  forms, 
disappear  in  the  heart  of  the  traffic. 

Sam  rose  and  stood  unsteadily.  He  found 
himself  surrounded  by  all  of  those  who  but  a 
moment  before  he  had  left  contentedly  dining 

1 80 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

at  Pavoni's.  In  an  excited  circle  waiters  and 
patrons  of  the  restaurant,  both  men  and  women, 
stood  in  the  falling  snow,  bareheaded,  coatless, 
and  cloakless,  staring  at  him.  Forsythe  pushed 
them  aside  and  took  Sam  by  the  arm. 

"What  happened?"  demanded  Sam. 

"You  ought  to  know,"  protested  Forsythe. 
"You  started  it!  The  moment  you  left  the 
restaurant  two  men  grabbed  their  hats  and 
jumped  after  you;  a  dozen  other  men,  without 
waiting  for  hats,  jumped  after  them.  The  rest 
of  us  got  out  just  as  the  two  men  and  the  detec 
tives  dived  into  the  traffic." 

A  big  man,  with  an  air  of  authority,  drew 
Sam  to  one  side. 

"Did  they  take  anything  from  you,  sir?"  he 
asked. 

"I've  nothing  they  could  take,"  said  Sam. 
"And  they  didn't  try  to  find  out.  They  just 
knocked  me  down." 

Forsythe  turned  to  the  big  man. 

"This  gentleman  is  a  friend  of  mine,  in 
spector,"  he  said.  "He  is  a  stranger  in  town 
and  was  at  Pavoni's  only  by  accident." 

"We  might  need  his  testimony,"  suggested 
the  official. 

Sam  gave  his  card  to  the  inspector  and  then 
sought  refuge  in  a  taxicab.  For  the  second  time 
he  bade  his  friend  good  night. 

181 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

"And  when  next  we  dine,"  he  called  to  him 
in  parting,  "choose  a  restaurant  where  the  de 
tective  service  is  quicker ! " 

Three  hours  later,  brushed  and  repaired  by 
Mrs.  Wroxton,  and  again  resplendent,  Sam  sat 
in  a  secluded  corner  of  Deptford  House  and 
bade  Polly  a  long  farewell.  It  was  especially 
long,  owing  to  the  unusual  number  of  inter 
ruptions  ;  for  it  was  evident  that  Polly  had  many 
friends  in  London,  and  that  not  to  know  the 
Richest  One  in  America  and  her  absurd  mother, 
and  the  pompous,  self-satisfied  father,  argued 
oneself  nobody.  But  finally  the  duchess  car 
ried  Polly  off  to  sup  with  her;  and  as  the  duchess 
did  not  include  Sam  in  her  invitation — at  least 
not  in  such  a  way  that  any  one  could  notice  it 
— Sam  said  good-night — but  not  before  he  had 
arranged  a  meeting  with  Polly  for  eleven  that 
same  morning.  If  it  was  clear,  the  meeting 
was  to  be  at  the  duck  pond  in  St.  James's  Park; 
if  it  snowed,  at  the  National  Gallery  in  front  of 
the  "Age  of  Innocence." 

After  robbing  the  duchess  of  three  suppers, 
Sam  descended  to  the  hall  and  from  an  atten 
dant  received  his  coat  and  hat,  which  latter  the 
attendant  offered  him  with  the  inside  of  the 
hat  showing.  Sam  saw  in  it  the  trademark  of 
a  foreign  maker. 

"That's  not  my  hat,"  said  Sam. 
182 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

The  man  expressed  polite  disbelief. 

"  I  found  it  rolled  up  in  the  pocket  of  your 
greatcoat,  sir,"  he  protested. 

The  words  reminded  Sam  that  on  arriving  at 
Deptford  House  he  had  twisted  the  hat  into  a 
roll  and  stuffed  it  into  his  overcoat  pocket. 

"Quite  right,"  said  Sam.  But  it  was  not  his 
hat;  and  with  some  hope  of  still  recovering  his 
property  he  made  way  for  other  departing 
guests  and  at  one  side  waited. 

For  some  clew  to  the  person  he  believed  was 
now  wearing  his  hat,  Sam  examined  the  one  in 
his  hand.  Just  showing  above  the  inside  band 
was  something  white.  Thinking  it  might  be 
the  card  of  the  owner,  Sam  removed  it.  It 
was  not  a  card,  but  a  long  sheet  of  thin  paper, 
covered  with  typewriting,  and  many  times 
folded.  Sam  read  the  opening  paragraph. 
Then  he  backed  suddenly  toward  a  great  chair 
of  gold  and  velvet,  and  fell  into  it. 

He  was  conscious  the  attendants  in  pink 
stockings  were  regarding  him  askance;  that,  as 
they  waited  in  the  drafty  hall  for  cars  and 
taxis,  the  noble  lords  in  stars  and  ribbons,  the 
noble  ladies  in  tiaras  and  showing  much-fur-Iined 
galoshes,  were  discussing  his  strange  appearance. 
They  might  well  believe  the  youth  was  ill;  they 
might  easily  have  considered  him  intoxicated. 
Outside  rose  the  voices  of  servants  and  police 

183 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

calling  the  carriages.  Inside  other  servants 
echoed  them. 

"The  Duchess  of  Sutherland's  car!"  they 
chanted.  "Mrs.  Trevor  Hill's  carriage!  The 
French  ambassador's  carriage!  Baron  Hauss- 
mann's  car!" 

Like  one  emerging  from  a  trance,  Sam  sprang 
upright.  A  little  fat  man,  with  mild  blue  eyes 
and  curly  red  hair,  was  shyly  and  with  mur 
mured  apologies  pushing  toward  the  exit.  Be 
fore  he  gained  it  Sam  had  wriggled  a  way  to 
his  elbow. 

"Baron  Haussmann!"  he  stammered.  "I 
must  speak  to  you.  It's  a  matter  of  gravest 
importance.  Send  away  your  car,"  he  begged, 
"and  give  me  five  minutes." 

The  eyes  of  the  little  fat  man  opened  wide  in 
surprise,  almost  in  alarm.  He  stared  at  Sam 
reprovingly. 

"Impossible!"  he  murmured.  "I — I  do  not 
know  you." 

"This  is  a  letter  of  introduction,"  said  Sam. 
Into  the  unwilling  fingers  of  the  banker  he 
thrust  the  folded  paper.  Bending  over  him,  he 
whispered  in  his  ear.  "That,"  said  Sam,  "is 
the  Treaty  of  London !" 

The  alarm  of  Baron  Haussmann  increased  to 
a  panic. 

"Impossible!"  he  gasped.  And,  with  re- 
184 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

proach,  he  repeated :  "  I  do  not  know  you,  sir ! 
I  do  not  know  you  I" 

At  that  moment,  towering  above  the  crush, 
appeared  the  tall  figure  of  Senator  Seward. 
The  rich  man  of  the  New  World  and  the  rich 
man  of  Europe  knew  each  other  only  by  sight. 
But,  upon  seeing  Sam  in  earnest  converse  with 
the  great  banker,  the  senator  believed  that 
without  appearing  to  seek  it  he  might  through 
Sam  effect  a  meeting.  With  a  hearty  slap  on 
the  shoulder  he  greeted  his  fellow  countryman. 

"Halloo,  Sam!"  he  cried  genially.  "You 
walking  home  with  me?" 

Sam  did  not  even  turn  his  head. 

"No !"  he  snapped.     " I'm  busy.     Go  'way !" 

Crimson,  the  senator  disappeared.  Baron 
Haussmann  regarded  the  young  stranger  with 
amazed  interest. 

"You  know  him  I"  he  protested.  "He  called 
you  Sam !" 

"Know  him?"  cried  Sam  impatiently.  "I've 
got  to  know  him !  He's  going  to  be  my  father- 
in-law." 

The  fingers  of  the  rich  man  clutched  the 
folded  paper  as  the  claws  of  a  parrot  cling  to 
the  bars  of  his  cage.  He  let  his  sable  coat  slip 
into  the  hands  of  a  servant;  he  turned  back 
toward  the  marble  staircase. 

"Come!"  he  commanded. 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

Sam  led  him  to  the  secluded  corner  Polly  and 
he  had  left  vacant  and  told  his  story. 

"So,  it  is  evident,"  concluded  Sam,  "that 
each  night  some  one  in  the  service  of  the  Times 
dined  at  Pavoni's,  and  that  his  hat  was  the 
same  sort  of  hat  as  the  one  worn  by  Hertz; 
and  each  night,  inside  the  lining  of  his  hat, 
Hertz  hid  the  report  of  that  day's  proceed 
ings.  And  when  the  Times  man  left  the  res 
taurant  he  exchanged  hats  with  Hertz.  But 
to-night — I  got  Hertz's  hat  and  with  it  the 
treaty!" 

In  perplexity  the  blue  eyes  of  the  little  great 
man  frowned. 

"It  is  a  remarkable  story,"  he  said. 

"You  mean  you  don't  believe  me!"  retorted 
Sam.  "If  I  had  financial  standing — if  I  had 
credit — if  I  were  not  a  stranger — you  would  not 
hesitate." 

Baron  Haussmann  neither  agreed  nor  con 
tradicted.  He  made  a  polite  and  deprecatory 
gesture.  Still  in  doubt,  he  stared  at  the  piece 
of  white  paper.  Still  deep  in  thought,  he 
twisted  and  creased  between  his  fingers  the 
Treaty  of  London ! 

Returning  with  the  duchess  from  supper, 
Polly  caught  sight  of  Sam  and,  with  a  happy 
laugh,  ran  toward  him.  Seeing  he  was  not 
alone,  she  halted  and  waved  her  hand. 

1 86 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

" Don't  forget ! "  she  called.     "At  eleven ! " 

She  made  a  sweet  and  lovely  picture.  Sam 
rose  and  bowed. 

"  PII  be  there  at  ten,"  he  answered. 

With  his  mild  blue  eyes  the  baron  followed 
Polly  until  she  had  disappeared.  Then  he 
turned  and  smiled  at  Sam. 

"Permit  me,"  he  said,  "to  offer  you  my 
felicitations.  Your  young  lady  is  very  beautiful 
and  very  good."  Sam  bowed  his  head.  "If 
she  trusts  you,"  murmured  the  baron,  "I  think 
I  can  trust  you  too." 

"How  wonderful  is  credit!"  exclaimed  Sam. 
"  I  was  just  saying  so  to  my  landlady.  If  you 
have  only  cash  you  spend  it  and  nothing  re 
mains.  But  with  credit  you  can " 

"How  much,"  interrupted  the  banker,  "do 
you  want  for  this?" 

Sanntfeturned  briskly  to  the  business  of  the 
moment. 

"To  be  your  partner,"  he  said — "to  get  half 
of  what  you  make  out  of  it." 

The  astonished  eyes  of  the  baron  were  large 
with  wonder.  Again  he  reproved  Sam. 

"What  I  shall  make  out  of  it?"  he  demanded 
incredulously.  "Do  you  know  how  much  I 
shall  make  out  of  it?" 

"I  cannot  even  guess,"  said  Sam;  "but  I 
want  half." 

187 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

The  baron  smiled  tolerantly. 

"And  how,"  he  asked,  "could  you  possibly 
know  what  I  give  you  is  really  half?" 

In  his  turn,  Sam  made  a  deprecatory  gesture. 

"Your  credit,"  said  Sam,  "is  good!" 

That  morning,  after  the  walk  in  St.  James's 
Park,  when  Sam  returned  with  Polly  to  Clar- 
idge's,  they  encountered  her  father  in  the  hall. 
Mindful  of  the  affront  of  the  night  before,  he 
greeted  Sam  only  with  a  scowl. 

"Senator,"  cried  Sam  happily,  "you  must  be 
the  first  to  hear  the  news!  Polly  and  I  are 
going  into  partnership.  We  are  to  be  married." 

This  time  Senator  Seward  did  not  trouble 
himself  even  to  tell  Sam  he  was  an  ass.  He 
merely  grinned  cynically. 

"Is  that  all  your  news?"  he  demanded  with 
sarcasm. 

"No,"  said  Sam — "I  am  going  into  partner 
ship  with  Baron  Haussmann  too!" 


188 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF 
COBRE 

YOUNG  EVERETT  at  last  was  a  minister  pleni 
potentiary.  In  London  as  third  secretary  he 
had  splashed  around  in  the  rain  to  find  the  am 
bassador's  carriage.  In  Rome  as  a  second  sec 
retary  he  had  served  as  a  clearing-house  for 
the  Embassy's  visiting-cards;  and  in  Madrid  as 
first  secretary  he  had  acted  as  interpreter  for  a 
minister  who,  though  valuable  as  a  national 
chairman,  had  much  to  learn  of  even  his  own 
language.  But  although  surrounded  by  all  the 
wonders  and  delights  of  Europe,  although  he 
walked,  talked,  wined,  and  dined  with  states 
men  and  court  beauties,  Everett  was  not  happy. 
He  was  never  his  own  master.  Always  he  an 
swered  the  button  pressed  by  the  man  higher 
up.  Always  over  him  loomed  his  chief;  always, 
for  his  diligence  and  zeal,  his  chief  received 
credit. 

As  His  Majesty's  naval  attache  put  it  sym 
pathetically,  "Better  be  a  top-side  man  on  a 
sampan  than  First  Luff  on  the  Dreadnought. 
Don't  be  another  man's  right  hand.  Be  your 
own  right  hand."  Accordingly  when  the  State 
Department  offered  to  make  him  minister  to 

189 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

the  Republic  of  Amapala,  Everett  gladly  de 
serted  the  flesh-pots  of  Europe,  and,  on  mule- 
back  over  trails  in  the  living  rock,  through 
mountain  torrents  that  had  never  known  the 
shadow  of  a  bridge,  through  swamp  and  jungle, 
rode  sunburnt  and  saddle-sore  into  his  inheri 
tance. 

When  giving  him  his  farewell  instructions,  the 
Secretary  of  State  had  not  attempted  to  deceive 
him. 

"Of  all  the  smaller  republics  of  Central  Amer 
ica,"  he  frankly  told  him,  "Amapala  is  the  least 
desirable,  least  civilized,  least  acceptable.  It 
offers  an  ambitious  young  diplomat  no  chance. 
But  once  a  minister,  always  a  minister.  Having 
lifted  you  out  of  the  secretary  class  we  can't 
demote  you.  Your  days  of  deciphering  cable 
grams  are  over,  and  if  you  don't  die  of  fever, 
of  boredom,  or  brandy,  call  us  up  in  a  year  or 
two  and  we  will  see  what  we  can  do." 

Everett  regarded  the  Secretary  blankly. 

"Has  the  department  no  interest  in  Ama 
pala?"  he  begged.  "Is  there  nothing  you  want 
there?" 

"There  is  one  thing  we  very  much  want," 
returned  the  Secretary,  "but  we  can't  get  it. 
We  want  a  treaty  to  extradite  criminals." 

The  young  minister  laughed  confidently. 

"Why !"  he  exclaimed,  "that  should  be  easy." 
190 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE' 

The  Secretary  smiled. 

"You  have  our  full  permission  to  get  it,"  he 
said.  "This  department,"  he  explained,  "under 
three  administrations  has  instructed  four  minis 
ters  to  arrange  such  a  treaty.  The  Bankers' 
Association  wants  it;  the  Merchants'  Protective 
Alliance  wants  it.  Amapala  is  the  only  place 
within  striking  distance  of  our  country  where  a 
fugitive  is  safe.  It  is  the  only  place  where  a 
dishonest  cashier,  swindler,  or  felon  can  find 
refuge.  Sometimes  it  seems  almost  as  though 
when  a  man  planned  a  crime  he  timed  it  exactly 
so  as  to  catch  the  boat  for  Amapala.  And, 
once  there,  we  can't  lay  our  hands  on  him;  and, 
what's  more,  we  can't  lay  our  hands  on  the 
money  he  takes  with  him.  I  have  no  right  to 
make  a  promise,"  said  the  great  man,  "but  the 
day  that  treaty  is  signed  you  can  sail  for  a  lega 
tion  in  Europe.  Do  I  make  myself  clear?" 

"So  clear,  sir,"  cried  Everett,  laughing, 
"that  if  I  don't  arrange  that  treaty  I  will  re 
main  in  Amapala  until  I  do." 

"Four  of  your  predecessors,"  remarked  the 
Secretary,  "made  exactly  the  same  promise,  but 
none  of  them  got  us  the  treaty." 

"Probably  none  of  them  remained  in  Ama 
pala,  either,"  retorted  Everett. 

"Two  did,"  corrected  the  Secretary;  "as  you 
ride  into  Camaguay  you  see  their  tombstones." 

191 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

Everett  found  the  nine-day  mule-ride  from 
the  coast  to  the  capital  arduous,  but  full  of  in 
terest.  After  a  week  at  his  post  he  appreciated 
that  until  he  left  it  and  made  the  return  journey 
nothing  of  equal  interest  was  again  likely  to 
occur.  For  life  in  Camaguay,  the  capital  of 
Amapala,  proved  to  be  one  long,  dreamless 
slumber.  In  the  morning  each  of  the  inhabi 
tants  engaged  in  a  struggle  to  get  awake;  after 
the  second  breakfast  he  ceased  struggling,  and 
for  a  siesta  sank  into  his  hammock.  After  din 
ner,  at  nine  o'clock,  he  was  prepared  to  sleep 
in  earnest,  and  went  to  bed.  The  official  life  as 
explained  to  Everett  by  Garland,  the  American 
consul,  was  equally  monotonous.  When  Presi 
dent  Mendoza  was  not  in  the  mountains  deer- 
hunting,  or  suppressing  a  revolution,  each  Sun 
day  he  invited  the  American  minister  to  dine. 
at  the  palace.  In  return  His  Excellency  ex 
pected  once  a  week  to  be  invited  to  breakfast 
with  the  minister.  He  preferred  that  the  activ 
ities  of  that  gentleman  should  go  no  further. 
Life  in  the  diplomatic  circle  was  even  less 
strenuous.  Everett  was  the  doyen  of  the  diplo 
matic  corps  because  he  was  the  only  diplomat. 
All  other  countries  were  represented  by  consuls 
who  were  commission  merchants  and  shopkeep 
ers.  They  were  delighted  at  having  among 
them  a  minister  plenipotentiary.  When  he 

192 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

took  pity  on  them  and  invited  them  to  tea, 
which  invitations  he  delivered  in  person  to  each 
consul  at  the  door  of  each  shop,  the  entire 
diplomatic  corps,  as  the  consuls  were  pleased 
to  describe  themselves,  put  up  the  shutters,  put 
on  their  official  full-dress  uniforms  and  arrived 
in  a  body. 

The  first  week  at  his  post  Everett  spent  in 
reading  the  archives  of  the  legation.  They 
were  most  discouraging.  He  found  that  for  the 
sixteen  years  prior  to  his  arrival  the  only  events 
reported  to  the  department  by  his  predecessors 
were  revolutions  and  the  refusals  of  successive 
presidents  to  consent  to  a  treaty  of  extradition. 
On  that  point  all  Amapalans  were  in  accord. 
Though  overnight  the  government  changed 
hands,  though  presidents  gave  way  to  dictators, 
and  dictators  to  military  governors,  the  national 
policy  of  Amapala  continued  to  be  "No  extra 
dition!"  The  ill  success  of  those  who  had 
preceded  him  appalled  Everett.  He  had  prom 
ised  himself  by  a  brilliant  assault  to  secure  the 
treaty  and  claim  the  legation  in  Europe.  But 
the  record  of  sixteen  years  of  failure  caused 
him  to  alter  his  strategy.  Instead  of  an  attack 
he  prepared  for  a  siege.  He  unpacked  his 
books,  placed  the  portrait  of  his  own  President 
over  the  office  desk,  and  proceeded  to  make 
friends  with  his  fellow  exiles. 

193 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

Of  the  foreign  colony  in  Camaguav  some  fifty 
were  Americans,  and  from  the  rest  of  the  world 
they  were  as  hopelessly  separated  as  the  crew 
of  a  light-ship.  From  the  Pacific  they  were  cut 
off  by  the  Cordilleras,  from  the  Caribbean  by  a 
nine-day  mule-ride.  To  the  north  and  south, 
jungle,  forests,  swamp-lands,  and  mountains 
hemmed  them  in. 

Of  the  fifty  Americans,  one-half  were  con 
stantly  on  the  trail;  riding  to  the  coast  to  visit 
their  plantations,  or  into  the  mountains  to  in 
spect  their  mines.  When  Everett  arrived,  of 
those  absent  the  two  most  important  were 
Chester  Ward  and  Colonel  Goddard.  Indeed, 
so  important  were  these  gentlemen  that  Ever 
ett  was  made  to  understand  that,  until  they 
approved,  his  recognition  as  the  American  min 
ister  was  in  a  manner  temporary. 

Chester  Ward,  or  "Chet,"  as  the  exiles  re 
ferred  to  him,  was  one  of  the  richest  men  in 
Amapala,  and  was  engaged  in  exploring  the 
ruins  of  the  lost  city  of  Cobre,  which  was  a  one- 
hour  ride  from  the  capital.  Ward  possessed  the 
exclusive  right  to  excavate  that  buried  city  and 
had  held  it  against  all  comers.  The  offers  of 
American  universities,  of  archaeological  and  geo 
graphical  societies  that  also  wished  to  dig  up 
the  ancient  city  and  decipher  the  hieroglyphs 
on  her  walls,  were  met  with  a  curt  rebuff.  That 
work,  the  government  of  Amapala  would  reply, 

194 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

was  in  the  trained  hands  of  Senor  Chester  Ward. 
In  his  chosen  effort  the  government  would  not 
disturb  him,  nor  would  it  permit  others  com 
ing  in  at  the  eleventh  hour  to  rob  him  of  his 
glory.  This  Everett  learned  from  the  consul, 
Garland. 

"Ward  and  Colonel  Goddard,"  the  consul  ex 
plained,  "are  two  of  five  countrymen  of  ours 
who  run  the  American  colony,  and,  some  say, 
run  the  government.  The  others  are  Mellen, 
who  has  the  asphalt  monopoly;  Jackson,  who  is 
building  the  railroads,  and  Major  Feiberger,  of 
the  San  Jose  silver-mines.  They  hold  monopo 
lies  and  pay  President  Mendoza  ten  per  cent  of 
the  earnings,  and,  on  the  side,  help  him  run 
the  country.  Of  the  five,  the  Amapalans  love 
Goddard  best,  because  he's  not  trying  to  rob 
them.  Instead,  he  wants  to  boost  Amapala. 
His  ideas  are  perfectly  impracticable,  but  he 
doesn't  know  that,  and  neither  do  they.  He's 
a  kind  of  Colonel  Mulberry  Sellers  and  a  South 
erner.  Not  the  professional  sort,  that  fight 
elevator-boys  because  they're  colored,  and  let 
off  rebel  yells  in  rathskellers  when  a  Hungarian 
band  plays  'Dixie,'  but  the  sort  you  read  about 
and  so  seldom  see.  He  was  once  State  Trea 
surer  of  Alabama." 

"What's  he  doing  down  here?"  asked  the 
minister. 

"Never  the  same  thing  two  months  together," 
195 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

the  consul  told  him;  "railroads,  mines,  rubber. 
He  says  all  Amapala  needs  is  developing." 

As  men  who  can  see  a  joke  even  when  it  is 
against  themselves,  the  two  exiles  smiled  rue- 
fully. 

"That's  all  it  needs,"  said  Everett. 

For  a  moment  the  consul  regarded  him 
thoughtfully. 

"I  might  as  well  tell  you,"  he  said,  "you'll 
learn  it  soon  enough  anyway,  that  the  men  who 
will  keep  you  from  getting  your  treaty  are  these 
five,  especially  old  man  Goddard  and  Ward," 

Everett  exclaimed  indignantly: 

"Why  should  they  interfere?" 

"Because,"  explained  the  consul,  "they  are 
fugitives  from  justice,  and  they  don't  want  to 
go  home.  Ward  is  wanted  for  forgery  or  some 
polite  crime,  I  don't  know  which.  And  Colonel 
Goddard  for  appropriating  the  State  funds  of 
Alabama.  Ward  knew  what  he  was  doing  and 
made  a  lot  out  of  it.  He's  still  rich.  No  one's 
weeping  over  him.  Goddard's  case  is  different. 
He  was  imposed  on  and  made  a  catspaw.  When 
he  was  State  treasurer  the  men  who  appointed 
him  came  to  him  one  night  and  said  they  must 
have  some  of  the  State's  funds  to  show  a  bank 
examiner  hi  the  morning.  They  appealed  to 
him  on  the  ground  of  friendship,  as  the  men 
who'd  given  him  his  job.  They  would  return 

196 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

the  money  the  next  evening.  Goddard  believed 
they  would.  They  didn't,  and  when  some  one 
called  for  a  show-down  the  colonel  was  shy 
about  fifty  thousand  dollars  of  the  State's 
money.  He  lost  his  head,  took  the  boat  out  of 
Mobile  to  Porto  Cortez,  and  hid  here.  He's 
been  here  twenty  years  and  all  the  Amapalans 
love  him.  He's  the  adopted  father  of  their 
country.  They're  so  afraid  he'll  be  taken  back 
arxd  punished  that  they'll  never  consent  to  an 
extradition  treaty  even  if  the  other  Americans, 
Mellen,  Jackson,  and  Feiberger,  weren't  paying 
them  big  money  not  to  consent.  President 
Mendoza  himself  told  me  that  as  long  as  Colonel 
Goddard  honored  his  country  by  remaining  in 
it,  he  was  his  guest,  and  he  would  never  agree 
to  extradition.  *I  could  as  soon,'  he  said,  'sign 
his  death-warrant." 

Everett  grinned  dismally. 

"That's  rather  nice  of  them,"  he  said,  "but 
it's  hard  on  me.  But,"  he  demanded,  "why 
Ward?  What  has  he  done  for  Amapala?  Is  it 
because  of  Cobre,  because  of  his  services  as  an 
archaeologist?" 

The  consul  glanced  around  the  patio  and 
dragged  his  chair  nearer  to  Everett. 

"This  is  my  own  dope,"  he  whispered;  "it 
may  be  wrong.  Anyway,  it's  only  for  your 
private  information." 

197 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

He  waited  until,  with  a  smile,  Everett  agreed 
to  secrecy. 

"Chet  Ward,"  protested  the  consul,  "is  no 
more  an  archaeologist  than  I  am !  He  talks  well 
about  Cobre,  and  he  ought  to,  because  every 
word  he  speaks  is  cribbed  straight  from  Haupt- 
mann's  monograph,  published  in  1855.  And  he 
bos  dug  up  something  at  Cobre;  something 
worth  a  darned  sight  more  than  stone  monkeys 
and  carved  altars.  But  his  explorations  are  a 
bluff.  They're  a  blind  to  cover  up  what  he's 
really  after;  what  I  think  he's  found!" 

As  though  wishing  to  be  urged,  the  young 
man  paused,  and  Everett  nodded  for  him  to 
continue.  He  was  wondering  whether  life  in 
Amapala  might  not  turn  out  to  be  more  inter 
esting  than  at  first  it  had  appeared,  or  whether 
Garland  was  not  a  most  charming  liar. 

"Ward  visits  the  ruins  every  month,"  con 
tinued  Garland.  "But  he  takes  with  him  only 
two  mule-drivers  to  cook  and  look  after  the 
pack-train,  and  he  doesn't  let  even  the  drivers 
inside  the  ruins.  He  remains  at  Cobre  three  or 
four  days  and,  to  make  a  show,  fills  his  saddle 
bags  with  broken  tiles  and  copper  ornaments. 
He  turns  them  over  to  the  government,  and  it 
dumps  them  in  the  back  yard  of  the  palace. 
You  can't  persuade  me  that  he  holds  his  con 
cession  with  that  junk.  He's  found  something 

198 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

else  at  Cobre  and  he  shares  it  with  Mendoza, 
and  I  believe  it's  gold." 

The  minister  smiled  delightedly. 

"What  kind  of  gold? 

"Maybe  in  the  rough,"  said  the  consul. 
"But  I  prefer  to  think  it's  treasure.  The  place 
is  full  of  secret  chambers,  tombs,  and  passage 
ways  cut  through  the  rock,  deep  under  the  sur 
face.  I  believe  Ward  has  stumbled  on  some 
vault  where  the  priests  used  to  hide  their  loot. 
I  believe  he's  getting  it  out  bit  by  bit  and  going 
shares  with  Mendoza." 

"If  that  were  so,"  ventured  Everett,  "why 
wouldn't  Mendoza  take  it  all?" 

"Because  Ward,"  explained  the  consul,  "is 
the  only  one  who  knows  where  it  is.  The  ruins 
cover  two  square  miles.  You  might  search  for 
years.  They  tried  to  follow  and  spy  on  him, 
but  Ward  was  too  clever  for  them.  He  turned 
back  at  once.  If  they  don't  take  what  he 
gives,  they  get  nothing.  So  they  protect  him 
from  real  explorers  and  from  extradition.  The 
whole  thing  is  unfair.  A  real  archaeologist 
turned  up  here  a  month  ago.  He  had  letters 
from  the  Smithsonian  Institute  and  several  big 
officials  at  Washington,  but  do  you  suppose 
they  would  let  him  so  much  as  smell  of  Cobre? 
Not  they !  Not  even  when  I  spoke  for  him  as 
consul.  Then  he  appealed  to  Ward,  and  Ward 

199 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

turned  him  down  hard.  You  were  arriving,  so 
he's  hung  on  here  hoping  you  may  have  more 
influence.  His  name  is  Peabody;  he's  a  pro 
fessor,  but  he's  young  and  full  of  'get  there,' 
and  he  knows  more  about  the  ruins  of  Cobre 
now  than  Ward  does  after  having  them  all  to 
himself  for  two  years.  He's  good  people  and 
I  hope  you'll  help  him." 

Everett  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"  If  the  government  has  given  the  concession 
to  him,"  he  pointed  out,  "no  matter  who  Ward 
may  be,  or  what  its  motives  were  for  giving  it 
to  him,  I  can't  ask  it  to  break  its  promise.  As 
an  American  citizen  Ward  is  as  much  entitled 
to  my  help — officially — as  Professor  Peabody, 
whatever  his  standing." 

"Ward's  a  forger,"  protested  Garland,  "a 
fugitive  from  justice;  and  Peabody  is  a  scholar 
and  a  gentleman.  I'm  not  keen  about  dead 
cities  myself — this  one  we're  in  now  is  dead 
enough  for  me — but  if  civilization  is  demanding 
to  know  what  Cobre  was  like  eight  hundred 
years  ago,  civilization  is  entitled  to  find  out, 
and  Peabody  seems  the  man  for  the  job.  It's  a 
shame  to  turn  him  down  for  a  gang  of  grafters." 

"Tell  him  to  come  and  talk  to  me,"  said  the 
minister. 

"He  rode  over  to  the  ruins  of  Copan  last 
week,"  explained  Garland,  "where  the  Harvard 

200 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

expedition  is.  But  he's  coming  back  to-morrow 
on  purpose  to  see  you." 

The  consul  had  started  toward  the  door  when 
he  suddenly  returned. 

"And  there's  some  one  else  coming  to  see 
you,"  he  said.  "Some  one,"  he  added  anx 
iously,  "  you  want  to  treat  right.  That's  Monica 
Ward.  She's  Chester  Ward's  sister,  and  you 
mustn't  get  her  mixed  up  with  anything  I 
told  you  about  her  brother.  She's  coming  to 
ask  you  to  help  start  a  Red  Cross  Society. 
She  was  a  volunteer  nurse  in  the  hospital  in  the 
last  two  revolutions,  and  what  she  saw  makes 
her  want  to  be  sure  she  won't  see  it  again. 
She's  taught  the  native  ladies  the  *  first  aid' 
drill,  and  they  expect  you  to  be  honorary  pres 
ident  of  the  society.  You'd  better  accept." 

Shaking  his  head,  Garland  smiled  pityingly 
upon  the  new  minister. 

"You've  got  a  swell  chance  to  get  your 
treaty,"  he  declared.  "Monica  is  another  one 
who  will  prevent  it." 

Everett  sighed  patiently. 

"What,"  he  demanded,  "might  her  particular 
crime  be;  murder,  shoplifting,  treason " 

"If  her  brother  had  to  leave  this  country," 
interrupted  Garland,  "she'd  leave  with  him. 
And  the  people  don't  want  that.  Her  pull  is 
the  same  as  old  man  Goddard's.  Everybody 

201 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

loves  him  and  everybody  loves  her.  I  love  her," 
exclaimed  the  consul  cheerfully;  "the  President 
loves  her,  the  sisters  in  the  hospital,  the  chain- 
gang  in  the  street,  the  washerwomen  in  the 
river,  the  palace  guard,  everybody  in  this  flea-v 
bitten,  God-forsaken  country  loves  Monica 
Ward — and  when  you  meet  her  you  will,  too." 

Garland  had  again  reached  the  door  to  the 
outer  hall  before  Everett  called  him  back. 

"If  it  is  not  a  leading  question,"  asked  the 
minister,  "what  little  indiscretion  in  your  life 
brought  you  to  Amapala?" 

Garland  grinned  appreciatively. 

"I  know  they  sound  a  queer  lot,"  he  assented, 
"but  when  you  get  to  know  'em,  you  like  'em. 
My  own  trouble,"  he  added,  "was  a  horse.  I 
never  could  see  why  they  made  such  a  fuss 
about  him.  He  was  lame  when  I  took  him." 

Disregarding  Garland's  pleasantry,  for  some 
time  His  Excellency  sat  with  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  head,  frowning  up  from  the  open 
patio  into  the  hot,  cloudless  sky.  On  the  ridge 
of  his  tiled  roof  a  foul  buzzard  blinked  at  him 
from  red-rimmed  eyes,  across  the  yellow  wall  a 
lizard  ran  for  shelter,  at  his  elbow  a  macaw 
compassing  the  circle  of  its  tin  prison  muttered 
dreadful  oaths.  Outside,  as  the  washerwomen 
beat  their  linen  clubs  upon  the  flat  rocks  of  the 
river,  the  hot,  stale  air  was  spanked  with  sharp 

202 


'You  mustn't  get  her  mixed  up  with  anything  I  told  you 
about  her  brother." 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

reports.  In  Camaguay  theirs  was  the  only 
industry,  the  only  sign  of  cleanliness;  and  recog 
nizing  that  another  shirt  had  been  thrashed 
into  subjection  and  rags,  Everett  winced.  No 
less  visibly  did  his  own  thoughts  cause  him  to 
wince.  Garland  he  had  forgotten,  and  he  was 
sunk  deep  in  self-pity.  His  thoughts  were  of 
London,  with  its  world  politics,  its  splendid  tra 
ditions,  its  great  and  gracious  ladies;  of  Paris  in 
the  spring  sunshine,  when  he  cantered  through 
the  Bois;  of  Madrid,  with  its  pomp  and  royalty, 
and  the  gray  walls  of  its  galleries  proclaiming 
Murillo  and  Velasquez.  These  things  he  had 
forsaken  because  he  believed  he  was  ambitious; 
and  behold  into  what  a  cul-de-sac  his  ambition 
had  led  him !  A  comic-opera  country  that  was 
not  comic,  but  dead  and  buried  from  the  world; 
a  savage  people,  unread,  unenlightened,  un 
clean;  and  for  society  of  his  countrymen,  pitiful 
derelicts  in  hiding  from  the  law.  In  his  soul  he 
rebelled.  In  words  he  exploded  bitterly. 

"This  is  one  hell  of  a  hole,  Garland,"  cried 
the  diplomat.  His  jaws  and  his  eyes  hardened. 
"  I'm  going  back  to  Europe.  And  the  only  way 
I  can  go  is  to  get  that  treaty.  I  was  sent  here 
to  get  it.  Those  were  my  orders.  And  I'll 
get  it  if  I  have  to  bribe  them  out  of  my  own 
pocket;  if  I  have  to  outbid  Mr.  Ward,  and 
send  him  and  your  good  Colonel  Goddard  and 

203 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COB  RE 

all  the  rest  of  the  crew  to  the  jails  where  they 
belong!" 

Garland  heard  him  without  emotion.  From 
long  residence  near  the  equator  he  diagnosed 
the  outbreak  as  a  case  of  tropic  choler,  aggra 
vated  by  nostalgia  and  fleas. 

"I'll  bet  you  don't,"  he  said. 

"I'll  bet  you  your  passage-money  home," 
shouted  Everett,  "against  my  passage-money 
to  Europe." 

"Done!"  said  Garland.  "How  much  time 
do  you  want — two  years?" 

The  diplomat  exclaimed  mockingly: 

"Two  months!" 

"I  win  now,"  said  the  consul.  "  I'll  go  home 
and  pack." 

The  next  morning  his  clerk  told  Everett  that 
in  the  outer  office  Monica  Ward  awaited  him. 

Overnight  Everett  had  developed  a  prejudice 
against  Miss  Ward.  What  Garland  had  said  in 
her  favor  had  only  driven  him  the  wrong  way. 
Her  universal  popularity  he  disliked.  He  ar 
gued  that  to  gain  popularity  one  must  con 
cede  and  capitulate.  He  felt  that  the  sister 
of  an  acknowledged  crook,  no  matter  how  inno 
cent  she  might  be,  were  she  a  sensitive  woman, 
would  wish  to  efface  herself.  And  he  had 
found  that,  as  a  rule,  women  who  worked  in 
hospitals  and  organized  societies  bored  him. 

204 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

He  did  not  admire  the  militant,  executive  sis 
ter.  He  pictured  Miss  Ward  as  probably 
pretty,  but  with  the  coquettish  effrontery  of 
the  village  belle  and  with  the  pushing,  "good- 
fellow"  manners  of  the  new  school.  He  was 
prepared  either  to  have  her  slap  him  on  the 
back  or,  from  behind  tilted  eye-glasses,  make 
eyes  at  him.  He  was  sure  she  wore  eye-glasses, 
and  was  large,  plump,  and  Junoesque.  With 
reluctance  he  entered  the  outer  office.  He  saw, 
all  in  white,  a  girl  so  young  that  she  was  hardly 
more  than  a  child,  but  with  the  tall,  slim  figure 
of  a  boy.  Her  face  was  lovely  as  the  face  of  a 
violet,  and  her  eyes  were  as  shy.  But  shy  not 
through  lack  of  confidence  in  Everett,  nor  in 
any  human  being,  but  in  herself.  They  seemed 
to  say,  "I  am  a  very  unworthy,  somewhat 
frightened  young  person;  but  you,  who  are  so 
big  and  generous,  will  overlook  that,  and  you 
are  going  to  be  my  friend.  Indeed,  I  see  you 
are  my  friend." 

Everett  stood  quite  still.    He  nodded  gloomily. 

"Garland  was  right,"  he  exclaimed;  "I  do!" 

The  young  lady  was  plainly  distressed. 

"Do  what?"  she  stammered. 

"Some  day  I  will  tell  you,"  said  the  young 
man.  "Yes,"  he  added,  without  shame,  "I  am 
afraid  I  will."  He  bowed  her  into  the  inner 
office. 

205 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

"I  am  sorry,"  apologized  Monica,  "but  I  am 
come  to  ask  a  favor — two  favors;  one  of  you 
and  one  of  the  American  minister." 

Everett  drew  his  armchair  from  his  desk  and 
waved  Monica  into  it. 

"I  was  sent  here,"  he  said,  "to  do  exactly 
what  you  want.  The  last  words  the  President 
addressed  to  me  were,  'On  arriving  at  your  post 
report  to  Miss  Monica  Ward.' ' 

Fearfully,  Monica  perched  herself  on  the  edge 
of  the  armchair;  as  though  for  protection  she 
clasped  the  broad  table  before  her. 

"The  favor  I  want,"  she  hastily  assured  him, 
"is  not  for  myself." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Everett,  "for  it  is  already 
granted." 

"You  are  very  good,"  protested  Monica. 

"No,"  replied  Everett,  "I  am  only  powerful. 
I  represent  ninety-five  million  Americans,  and 
they  are  all  entirely  at  your  service.  So  is  the 
army  and  navy." 

Monica  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  The 
awe  she  felt  was  due  an  American  minister  was 
rapidly  disappearing,  and  in  Mr.  Everett  him 
self  her  confidence  was  increasing.  The  other 
ministers  plenipotentiary  she  had  seen  at  Cama- 
guay  had  been  old,  with  beards  like  mountain- 
goats,  and  had  worn  linen  dusters.  They  al 
ways  were  very  red  in  the  face  and  very  damp. 

206 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

Monica  decided  Mr.  Everett  also  was  old;  she 
was  sure  he  must  be  at  least  thirty-five;  but  in 
his  silk  pongee  and  pipe-clayed  tennis-shoes  he 
was  a  refreshing  spectacle.  Just  to  look  at  him 
turned  one  quite  cool. 

"  We  have  a  very  fine  line  of  battle-ships  this 
morning  at  Guantanamo,"  urged  Everett;  "if 
you  want  one  I'll  cable  for  it." 

Monica  laughed  softly.  It  was  good  to  hear 
nonsense  spoken.  The  Amapalans  had  never 
learned  it,  and  her  brother  said  just  what  he 
meant  and  no  more. 

"Our  sailors  were  here  once,"  Monica  volun 
teered.  She  wanted  Mr.  Everett  to  know  he 
was  not  entirely  cut  off  from  the  world.  "Dur 
ing  the  revolution,"  she  explained.  "We  were 
so  glad  to  see  them;  they  made  us  all  feel  nearer 
home.  They  set  up  our  flag  in  the  plaza,  and 
the  color-guard  let  me  photograph  it,  with  them 
guarding  it.  And  when  they  marched  away 
the  archbishop  stood  on  the  cathedral  steps  and 
blessed  them,  and  we  rode  out  along  the  trail  to 
where  it  comes  to  the  jungle.  And  then  we 
waved  good-by,  and  they  cheered  us.  We  all 
cried." 

For  a  moment,  quite  unconsciously,  Monica 
gave  an  imitation  of  how  they  all  cried.  It 
made  the  appeal  of  the  violet  eyes  even  more 
disturbing. 

207 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

"Don't  you  love  our  sailors?"  begged  Mon 
ica. 

Fearful  of  hurting  the  feelings  of  others,  she 
added  hastily,  "And,  of  course,  our  marines, 
too." 

Everett  assured  her  if  there  was  one  thing 
that  meant  more  to  him  than  all  else,  it  was  an 
American  bluejacket,  and  next  to  him  an  Amer 
ican  leatherneck. 

It  took  a  long  time  to  arrange  the  details  of 
the  Red  Cross  Society.  In  spite  of  his  reputa 
tion  for  brilliancy,  it  seemed  to  Monica  Mr. 
Everett  had  a  mind  that  plodded.  For  his 
benefit  it  was  necessary  several  times  to  repeat 
the  most  simple  proposition.  She  was  sure  his 
inability  to  fasten  his  attention  on  her  League 
of  Mercy  was  because  his  brain  was  occupied 
with  problems  of  state.  It  made  her  feel  sel 
fish  and  guilty.  When  his  visitor  decided  that 
to  explain  further  was  but  to  waste  his  valuable 
time  and  had  made  her  third  effort  to  go,  Ever 
ett  went  with  her.  He  suggested  that  she  take 
him  to  the  hospital  and  introduce  him  to  the 
sisters.  He  wanted  to  talk  to  them  about  the 
Red  Cross  League.  It  was  a  charming  walk. 
Every  one  lifted  his  hat  to  Monica;  the  beggars, 
the  cab-drivers,  the  barefooted  policemen,  and 
the  social  lights  of  Camaguay  on  the  sidewalks 
in  front  of  the  cafes  rose  and  bowed. 

208 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

"It  is  like  walking  with  royalty!"  exclaimed 
Everett. 

While  at  the  hospital  he  talked  to  the  Mother 
Superior — his  eyes  followed  Monica.  As  she 
moved  from  cot  to  cot  he  noted  how  the  younger 
sisters  fluttered  happily  around  her,  like  brides 
maids  around  a  bride,  and  how  as  she  passed, 
the  eyes  of  those  in  the  cots  followed  her  jeal 
ously,  and  after  she  had  spoken  with  them 
smiled  in  content. 

"She  is  good,"  the  Mother  Superior  was  say 
ing,  "and  her  brother,  too,  is  very  good." 

Everett  had  forgotten  the  brother.  With  a 
start  he  lifted  his  eyes  and  found  the  Mother 
Superior  regarding  him. 

"He  is  very  good,"  she  repeated.  "For  us, 
he  built  this  wing  of  the  hospital.  It  was  his 
money.  We  should  be  very  sorry  if  any  harm 
came  to  Mr.  Ward.  Without  his  help  we  would 
starve."  She  smiled,  and  with  a  gesture  signi 
fied  the  sick.  "I  mean  they  would  starve;  they 
would  die  of  disease  and  fever."  The  woman 
fixed  upon  him  grave,  inscrutable  eyes.  "Will 
Your  Excellency  remember?"  she  said.  It  was 
less  of  a  question  than  a  command.  "Where 
the  church  can  forgive — "  she  paused. 

Like  a  real  diplomat  Everett  sought  refuge  in 
mere  words. 

"The  church  is  all-powerful,  Mother,"  he 
209 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

said.  "Her  power  to  forgive  is  her  strongest 
weapon.  I  have  no  such  power.  It  lies  be 
yond  my  authority.  I  am  just  a  messenger- 
boy  carrying  the  wishes  of  the  government  of 
one  country  to  the  government  of  another." 

The  face  of  the  Mother  Superior  remained 
grave,  but  undisturbed. 

"Then,  as  regards  our  Mr.  Ward,"  she  said, 
"the  wishes  of  your  government  are " 

Again  she  paused;  again  it  was  less  of  a  ques 
tion  than  a  command.  With  interest  Everett 
gazed  at  the  whitewashed  ceiling. 

"I  have  not  yet,"  he  said,  "communicated 
them  to  any  one." 

That  night,  after  dinner  in  the  patio,  he 
reported  to  Garland  the  words  of  the  Mother 
Superior. 

"That  was  my  dream,  O  Prophet,"  concluded 
Everett;  "you  who  can  read  this  land  of  lotus- 
eaters,  interpret!  What  does  it  mean?" 

"It  only  means  what  I've  been  telling  you," 
said  the  consul.  "  It  means  that  if  you're  going 
after  that  treaty,  you've  only  got  to  fight  the 
Catholic  Church.  That's  all  it  means !" 

Later  in  the  evening  Garland  said:  "I  saw 
you  this  morning  crossing  the  plaza  with  Mon 
ica.  When  I  told  you  everybody  in  this  town 
loved  her,  was  I  right?" 

"Absolutely!"  assented  Everett.  "But  why 
didn't  you  tell  me  she  was  a  flapper?" 

210 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

"I  don't  know  what  a  flapper  is,"  promptly 
retorted  Garland.  "And  if  I  did,  I  wouldn't 
call  Monica  one." 

"A  flapper  is  a  very  charming  person,"  pro 
tested  Everett,  "I  used  the  term  in  its  most 
complimentary  sense.  It  means  a  girl  between 
fourteen  and  eighteen.  It's  English  slang,  and 
in  England  at  the  present  the  flapper  is  very 
popular.  She  is  driving  her  sophisticated  elder 
sister,  who  has  been  out  two  or  three  seasons, 
and  the  predatory  married  woman  to  the  wall. 
To  men  of  my  years  the  flapper  is  really  at  the 
dangerous  age." 

In  his  bamboo  chair  Garland  tossed  violently 
and  snorted. 

"I  sized  you  up,"  he  cried,  "as  a  man  of  the 
finest  perceptions.  I  was  wrong.  You  don't 
appreciate  Monica !  Dangerous !  You  might 
as  well  say  God's  sunshine  is  dangerous,  or  a 
beautiful  flower  is  dangerous." 

Everett  shook  his  head  at  the  other  man  re 
proachfully  : 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  sunstroke?"  he  de 
manded.  "Don't  you  know  if  you  smell  cer 
tain  beautiful  flowers  you  die?  Can't  you 
grasp  any  other  kind  of  danger  than  being  run 
down  by  a  trolley-car?  Is  the  danger  of  losing 
one's  peace  of  mind  nothing,  of  being  unfaithful 
to  duty,  nothing !  Is " 

Garland  raised  his  arms. 
211 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

"Don't  shoot!"  he  begged.  "I  apologize. 
You  do  appreciate  Monica.  You  have  your 
consul's  permission  to  walk  with  her  again." 

The  next  day  young  Professor  Peabody  called 
and  presented  his  letters.  He  was  a  forceful 
young  man  to  whom  the  delays  of  diplomacy 
did  not  appeal,  and  one  apparently  accustomed 
to  riding  off  whatever  came  in  his  way.  He 
seemed  to  consider  any  one  who  opposed  him, 
or  who  even  disagreed  with  his  conclusions,  as 
offering  a  personal  affront.  With  indignation  he 
launched  into  his  grievance. 

"These  people,"  he  declared,  "are  dogs  in 
the  manger,  and  Ward  is  the  worst  of  the  lot. 
He  knows  no  more  of  archaeology  than  a  con 
gressman.  The  man's  a  faker !  He  showed  me 
a  spear-head  of  obsidian  and  called  it  flint;  and 
he  said  the  Aztecs  borrowed  from  the  Mayas, 
and  that  the  Toltecs  were  a  myth.  And  he  got 
the  Aztec  solar  calendar  mixed  with  the  Ahau. 
He's  as  ignorant  as  that." 

"I  can't  believe  it!"  exclaimed  Everett. 

"You  may  laugh,"  protested  the  professor, 
j"but  the  ruins  of  Cobre  hold  secrets  the  stu 
dents  of  two  continents  are  trying  to  solve. 
They  hide  the  history  of  a  lost  race,  and  I  sub 
mit  it's  not  proper  one  man  should  keep  that 
knowledge  from  the  world,  certainly  not  for  a 
few  gold  armlets!" 

212 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

Everett  raised  his  eyes. 

"What  makes  you  say  that?"  he  demanded. 

"I've  been  kicking  my  heels  in  this  town  for 
a  month,"  Peabody  told  him,  "and  I've  talked 
to  the  people  here,  and  to  the  Harvard  expedi 
tion  at  Copan,  and  everybody  tells  me  this  fel 
low  has  found  treasure."  The  archaeologist  ex 
claimed  with  indignation:  "What's  gold,"  he 
snorted,  "compared  to  the  discovery  of  a  lost 
race?" 

"  I  applaud  your  point  of  view,"  Everett  as 
sured  him.  "I  am  to  see  the  President  to 
morrow,  and  I  will  lay  the  matter  before  him. 
I'll  ask  him  to  give  you  a  look  in." 

To  urge  his  treaty  of  extradition  was  the 
reason  for  the  audience  with  the  President,  and 
with  all  the  courtesy  that  a  bad  case  demanded 
Mendoza  protested  against  it.  He  pointed  out 
that  governments  entered  into  treaties  only 
when  the  ensuing  benefits  were  mutual.  For 
Amapala  in  a  treaty  of  extradition  he  saw  no 
benefit.  Amapala  was  not  so  far  "advanced" 
as  to  produce  defaulting  bank  presidents,  get- 
rich-quick  promoters,  counterfeiters,  and  thiev 
ing  cashiers.  Her  fugitives  were  revolutionists 
who  had  fought  and  lost,  and  every  one  was 
glad  to  have  them  go,  and  no  one  wanted  them 
back. 

"Or,"  suggested  the  President,  "suppose  I 
213 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

am  turned  out  by  a  revolution,  and  I  seek  asy 
lum  in  your  country?     My  enemies  desire  my 

life.     They  would  ask  for  my  extradition " 

"If  the  offense  were  political,*'  Everett  cor 
rected,   "my  government  would  surrender  no 


one." 


"But  my  enemies  would  charge  me  with 
murder,"  explained  the  President.  "Remem 
ber  Castro.  And  by  the  terms  of  the  treaty 
your  government  would  be  forced  to  surrender 
me.  And  I  am  shot  against  the  wall."  The 
President  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "That  treaty 
would  not  be  nice  for  me !" 

"Consider  the  matter  as  a  patriot,"  said  the 
diplomat.  "Is  it  good  that  the  criminals  of 
my  country  should  make  their  home  in  yours? 
When  you  are  so  fortunate  as  to  have  no  dis 
honest  men  of  your  own,  why  import  ours? 
We  don't  seek  the  individual.  We  want  to 
punish  him  only  as  a  warning  to  others.  And 
we  want  the  money  he  takes  with  him.  Often 
it  is  the  savings  of  the  very  poor." 

The  President  frowned.  It  was  apparent 
that  both  the  subject  and  Everett  bored  him. 

"I  name  no  names,"  exclaimed  Mendoza, 
"but  to  those  who  come  here  we  owe  the  little 
railroads  we  possess.  They  develop  our  mines 
and  our  coffee  plantations.  In  time  they  will 
make  this  country  very  modern,  very  rich. 

214 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

And  some  you  call  criminals  we  have  learned  to 
love.  Their  past  does  not  concern  us.  We 
shut  our  ears.  We  do  not  spy.  They  have 
come  to  us  as  to  a  sanctuary,  and  so  long  as 
they  claim  the  right  of  sanctuary,  I  will  not 
violate  it." 

As  Everett  emerged  from  the  cool,  dark  halls 
of  the  palace  into  the  glare  of  the  plaza  he  was 
scowling;  and  he  acknowledged  the  salute  of 
the  palace  guard  as  though  those  gentlemen 
had  offered  him  an  insult. 

Garland  was  waiting  in  front  of  a  cafe  and 
greeted  him  with  a  mocking  grin. 

"Congratulations,"  he  shouted. 

"  I  have  still  twenty-two  days,"  said  Everett. 

The  aristocracy  of  Camaguay  invited  the 
new  minister  to  formal  dinners  of  eighteen 
courses,  and  to  picnics  less  formal.  These  latter 
Everett  greatly  enjoyed,  because  while  Monica 
Ward  was  too  young  to  attend  the  state  din 
ners,  she  was  exactly  the  proper  age  for  the  all- 
day  excursions  to  the  waterfalls,  the  coffee 
plantations,  and  the  asphalt  lakes.  The  native 
belles  of  Camaguay  took  no  pleasure  in  riding 
farther  afield  than  the  military  parade-ground. 
Climbing  a  trail  so  steep  that  you  viewed  the 
sky  between  the  ears  of  your  pony,  or  where 
with  both  hands  you  forced  a  way  through 
hanging  vines  and  creepers,  did  not  appeal. 

215 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

But  to  Monica,  with  the  seat  and  balance  of  a 
cowboy,  riding  astride,  with  her  leg  straight 
and  the  ball  of  her  foot  just  feeling  the  stirrup, 
these  expeditions  were  the  happiest  moments  in 
her  exile.  So  were  they  to  Everett;  and  that 
on  the  trail  one  could  ride  only  in  single  file 
was  a  most  poignant  regret.  In  the  column  the 
place  of  honor  was  next  to  whoever  rode  at 
the  head,  but  Everett  relinquished  this  position 
in  favor  of  Monica.  By  this  manoeuvre  she 
always  was  in  his  sight,  and  he  could  call  upon 
her  to  act  as  his  guide  and  to  explain  what  lay 
on  either  hand.  His  delight  and  wonder  in 
her  grew  daily.  He  found  that  her  mind  leaped 
instantly  and  with  gratitude  to  whatever  was 
most  fair.  Just  out  of  reach  of  her  pony's 
hoofs  he  pressed  his  own  pony  forward,  and 
she  pointed  out  to  him  what  in  the  tropic  abun 
dance  about  them  she  found  most  beautiful. 
Sometimes  it  was  the  tumbling  waters  of  a 
cataract;  sometimes,  high  in  the  topmost 
branches  of  a  ceiba-tree,  a  gorgeous  orchid; 
sometimes  a  shaft  of  sunshine  as  rigid  as  a 
search-light,  piercing  the  shadow  of  the  jungle. 
At  first  she  would  turn  in  the  saddle  and  call 
to  him,  but  as  each  day  they  grew  to  know 
each  other  better  she  need  only  point  with  her 
whip-hand  and  he  would  answer,  "Yes,"  and 
each  knew  the  other  understood. 

216 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

As  a  body,  the  exiles  resented  Everett.  They 
knew  his  purpose  in  regard  to  the  treaty,  and 
for  them  he  always  must  be  the  enemy.  Even 
though  as  a  man  they  might  like  him,  they 
could  not  forget  that  his  presence  threatened 
their  peace  and  safety.  Chester  Ward  treated 
him  with  impeccable  politeness;  but,  although 
his  house  was  the  show-place  of  Camaguay,  he 
never  invited  the  American  minister  to  cross 
the  threshold.  On  account  of  Monica,  Everett 
regretted  this  and  tried  to  keep  the  relations  of 
her  brother  and  himself  outwardly  pleasant. 
But  Ward  made  it  difficult.  To  no  one  was 
his  manner  effusive,  and  for  Monica  only  he 
seemed  to  hold  any  real  feeling.  The  two  were 
alone  in  the  world;  he  was  her  only  relative, 
and  to  the  orphan  he  had  been  father  and 
mother.  When  she  was  a  child  he  had  bought 
her  toys  and  dolls;  now,  had  the  sisters  per 
mitted,  he  would  have  dressed  her  in  imported 
frocks,  and  with  jewels  killed  her  loveliness. 
He  seemed  to  understand  how  to  spend  his 
money  as  little  as  did  the  gossips  of  Camaguay 
understand  from  whence  it  came. 

That  Monica  knew  why  her  brother  lived  in 
Camaguay  Everett  was  uncertain.  She  did  not 
complain  of  living  there,  but  she  was  not  at 
rest,  and  constantly  she  was  asking  Everett  of 
foreign  lands.  As  Everett  was  homesick  far 
them,  he  was  most  eloquent. 

217 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

"I  should  like  to  see  them  for  myself,"  said 
Monica,  "but  until  my  brother's  work  here  is 
finished  we  must  wait.  And  I  am  young,  and 
after  a  few  years  Europe  will  be  just  as  old. 
When  my  brother  leaves  Amapala,  he  promises 
to  take  me  wherever  I  ask  to  go:  to  London,  to 
Paris,  to  Rome.  So  I  read  and  read  of  them; 
books  of  history,  books  about  painting,  books 
about  the  cathedrals.  But  the  more  I  read  the 
more  I  want  to  go  at  once,  and  that  is  disloyal." 

"Disloyal?"  asked  Everett. 

"To  my  brother,"  explained  Monica.  "He 
does  so  much  for  me.  I  should  think  only  of 
his  work.  That  is  all  that  really  counts.  For 
the  world  is  waiting  to  learn  what  he  has  dis 
covered.  It  is  like  having  a  brother  go  in 
search  of  the  North  Pole.  You  are  proud  of 
what  he  is  doing,  but  you  want  him  back  to 
keep  him  to  yourself.  Is  that  selfish?" 

Everett  was  a  trained  diplomat,  but  with  his 
opinion  of  Chester  Ward  he  could  not  think  of 
the  answer.  Instead,  he  was  thinking  of  Mon 
ica  in  Europe;  of  taking  her  through  the  churches 
and  galleries  which  she  had  seen  only  in  black 
and  white.  He  imagined  himself  at  her  side 
facing  the  altar  of  some  great  cathedral,  or 
some  painting  in  the  Louvre,  and  watching  her 
face  lighten  and  the  tears  come  to  her  eyes,  as 
they  did  now,  when  things  that  were  beautiful 
hurt  her.  Or  he  imagined  her  rid  of  her  half- 

218 


THE  BURIED   TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

mourning  and  accompanying  him  through  a 
cyclonic  diplomatic  career  that  carried  them  to 
Japan,  China,  Persia;  to  Berlin,  Paris,  and 
London.  In  these  imaginings  Monica  appeared 
in  pongee  and  a  sun-hat  riding  an  elephant, 
in  pearls  and  satin  receiving  royalty,  in  tweed 
knickerbockers  and  a  woollen  jersey  coasting 
around  the  hairpin  curve  at  Saint  Moritz. 

Of  course  he  recognized  that  except  as  his 
wife  Monica  could  not  accompany  him  to  all 
these  strange  lands  and  high  diplomatic  posts. 
And  of  course  that  was  ridiculous.  He  had 
made  up  his  mind  for  the  success  of  what  he 
called  his  career,  that  he  was  too  young  to 
marry;  but  he  was  sure,  should  he  propose  to 
marry  Monica,  every  one  would  say  he  was 
too  old.  And  there  was  another  consideration. 
What  of  the  brother?  Would  his  government 
send  him  to  a  foreign  post  when  his  wife  was 
the  sister  of  a  man  they  had  just  sent  to  the 
penitentiary? 

He  could  hear  them  say  in  London,  "We 
know  your  first  secretary,  but  who  is  Mrs. 
Everett?"  And  the  American  visitor  would 
explain:  "She  is  the  sister  of  'Inky  Dink/  the 
forger.  He  is  bookkeeping  in  Sing  Sing." 

Certainly  it  would  be  a  handicap.  He  tried 
to  persuade  himself  that  Monica  so  entirely 
filled  his  thoughts  because  in  Camaguay  there 

219 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

was  no  one  else;  it  was  a  case  of  propinquity; 
her  loneliness  and  the  fact  that  she  lay  under 
a  shadow  for  which  she  was  not  to  blame  ap 
pealed  to  his  chivalry.  So,  he  told  himself,  in 
thinking  of  Monica  except  as  a  charming  com 
panion,  he  was  an  ass.  And  then,  arguing  that 
in  calling  himself  an  ass  he  had  shown  his  sane- 
ness  and  impartiality,  he  felt  justified  in  seeing 
her  daily. 

One  morning  Garland  came  to  the  legation  to 
tell  Everett  that  Peabody  was  in  danger  of 
bringing  about  international  complications  by 
having  himself  thrust  into  the  cartel. 

"If  he  qualifies  for  this  local  jail,"  said  Gar 
land,  "you  will  have  a  lot  of  trouble  setting 
him  free.  You'd  better  warn  him  it's  easier  to 
keep  out  than  to  get  out." 

"What  has  he  been  doing?"  asked  the  min 
ister. 

"Poaching  on  Ward's  ruins,"  said  the  consul. 
"He  certainly  is  a  hustler.  He  pretends  to  go 
to  Copan,  but  really  goes  to  Cobre.  Ward  had 
him  followed  and  threatened  to  have  him  ar 
rested.  Peabody  claims  any  tourist  has  a 
right  to  visit  the  ruins  so  long  as  he  does  no 
excavating.  Ward  accused  him  of  exploring 
the  place  by  night  and  taking  photographs  by 
flash-light  of  the  hieroglyphs.  He's  put  an 
armed  guard  at  the  ruins,  and  he  told  Peabody 

220 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

they  are  to  shoot  on  sight.  So  Peabody  went 
to  Mendoza  and  said  if  anybody  took  a  shot  at 
him  he'd  bring  war-ships  down  here  and  blow 
Amapala  off  the  map/' 

"A  militant  archaeologist,"  said  Everett,  "is 
something  new.  Peabody  is  too  enthusiastic. 
He  and  his  hieroglyphs  are  becoming  a  bore." 

He  sent  for  Peabody  and  told  him  unless  he 
curbed  his  spirit  his  minister  could  not  promise 
to  keep  him  out  of  a  very  damp  and  dirty  dun 
geon. 

"I  am  too  enthusiastic,"  Peabody  admitted, 
"but  to  me  this  fellow  Ward  is  like  a  red  flag 
to  the  bull.  His  private  graft  is  holding  up 
the  whole  scientific  world.  He  won't  let  us 
learn  the  truth,  and  he's  too  ignorant  to  learn 
it  himself.  Why,  he  told  me  Cobre  dated  from 
iSyS,  when  Palacio  wrote  of  it  to  Philip  the 
Second,  not  knowing  that  in  that  very  letter 
Palacio  states  that  he  found  Cobre  in  ruins. 
Is  it  right  a  man  as  ignorant " 

Everett  interrupted  by  levelling  his  finger. 

"You,"  he  commanded,  "keep  out  of  those 
ruins !  My  dear  professor,"  he  continued  re 
proachfully,  "you  are  a  student,  a  man  of 
peace.  Don't  try  to  wage  war  on  these  Ama- 
palans.  They're  lawless,  they're  unscrupulous. 
So  is  Ward.  Besides,  you  are  in  the  wrong,  and 
if  they  turn  ugly,  your  minister  cannot  help 

221 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

you."  He  shook  his  head  and  smiled  doubt 
fully.  "I  can't  understand,"  he  exclaimed, 
"why  you're  so  keen.  It's  only  a  heap  of 
broken  pottery.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if  your 
interest  in  Cobre  is  that  only  of  the  archaeolo- 
gist." 

"What  other  interest — "  demanded  Peabody. 

"Doesn't  Ward's  buried  treasure  appeal  at 
all?"  asked  the  minister.  "I  mean,  of  course, 
to  your  imagination.  It  does  to  mine." 

The  young  professor  laughed  tolerantly. 

"Buried  treasure!"  he  exclaimed.  "If  Ward 
has  found  treasure,  and  I  think  he  has,  he's  wel 
come  to  it.  What  we  want  is  what  you  call 
the  broken  pottery.  It  means  nothing  to  you, 
but  to  men  like  myself,  who  live  eight  hundred 
years  behind  the  times,  it  is  much  more  precious 
than  gold." 

A  few  moments  later  Professor  Peabody  took 
his  leave,  and  it  was  not  until  he  had  turned 
the  corner  of  the  Calle  Morazan  that  he  halted 
and,  like  a  man  emerging  from  water,  drew  a 
deep  breath. 

"Gee!"  muttered  the  distinguished  archaeol 
ogist,  "that  was  a  close  call !" 

One  or  two  women  had  loved  Everett,  and 
after  five  weeks,  in  which  almost  daily  he  had 
seen  Monica,  he  knew  she  cared  for  him.  This 
discovery  made  him  entirely  happy  and  filled 

222 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

him  with  dismay.  It  was  a  complication  he 
had  not  foreseen.  It  left  him  at  the  parting  of 
two  ways,  one  of  which  he  must  choose.  For 
his  career  he  was  willing  to  renounce  marriage, 
but  now  that  Monica  loved  him,  even  though 
he  had  consciously  not  tried  to  make  her  love 
him,  had  he  the  right  to  renounce  it  for  her 
also?  He  knew  that  the  difference  between 
Monica  and  his  career  lay  in  the  fact  that  he 
loved  Monica  and  was  in  love  with  his  career. 
Which  should  he  surrender?  Of  this  he  thought 
long  and  deeply,  until  one  night,  without  think 
ing  at  all,  he  chose. 

Colonel  Goddard  had  given  a  dance,  and,  as 
all  invited  were  Americans,  the  etiquette  was 
less  formal  than  at  the  gatherings  of  the  Ama- 
palans.  For  one  thing,  the  minister  and  Mon 
ica  were  able  to  sit  on  the  veranda  overlooking 
the  garden  without  his  having  to  fight  a  duel 
in  the  morning. 

It  was  not  the  moonlight,  or  the  music,  or 
the  palms  that  made  Everett  speak.  It  was 
simply  the  knowledge  that  it  was  written,  that 
it  had  to  be.  And  he  heard  himself,  without 
prelude  or  introduction,  talking  easily  and 
assuredly  of  the  life  they  would  lead  as  man 
and  wife.  From  this  dream  Monica  woke  him. 
The  violet  eyes  were  smiling  at  him  through 
tears. 

223 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

"When  you  came,"  said  the  girl,  "and  I 
loved  you,  I  thought  that  was  the  greatest  hap 
piness.  Now  that  I  know  you  love  me  I  ask 
nothing  more.  And  I  can  bear  it." 

Everett  felt  as  though  an  icy  finger  had 
moved  swiftly  down  his  spine.  He  pretended 
not  to  understand. 

"Bear  what?"  he  demanded  roughly. 

"That  I  cannot  marry  you,"  said  the  girl. 
"Even  had  you  not  asked  me,  in  loving  you  I 
would  have  been  happy.  Now  that  I  know 
you  thought  of  me  as  your  wife,  I  am  proud. 
I  am  grateful.  And  the  obstacle " 

Everett  laughed  scornfully. 

"There  is  no  obstacle." 

Monica  shook  her  head.  Unafraid,  she  looked 
into  his  eyes,  her  own  filled  with  her  love  for  him. 

"Don't  make  it  harder,"  she  said.  "My 
brother  is  hiding  from  the  law.  What  he  did 
I  don't  know.  When  it  happened  I  was  at  the 
convent,  and  he  did  not  send  for  me  until  he 
had  reached  Amapala.  I  never  asked  why  we 
came,  but  were  I  to  marry  you,  with  your  name 
and  your  position,  every  one  else  would  ask. 
And  the  scandal  would  follow  you;  wherever 
you  went  it  would  follow;  it  would  put  an  end 
to  your  career." 

His  career,  now  that  Monica  urged  it  as  her 
rival,  seemed  to  Everett  particularly  trivial. 

224 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

"I  don't  know  what  your  brother  did  either," 
he  said.  "His  sins  are  on  his  own  head. 
They're  not  on  yours,  nor  on  mine.  I  don't 
judge  him;  neither  do  I  intend  to  let  him  spoil 
my  happiness.  Now  that  I  have  found  you  I 
will  never  let  you  go." 

Sadly  Monica  shook  her  head  and  smiled. 

"When  you  leave  here,"  she  said,  "for  some 
new  post,  you  won't  forget  me,  but  you'll  be 
grateful  that  I  let  you  go  alone;  that  I  was  not 
a  drag  on  you.  When  you  go  back  to  your 
great  people  and  your  proud  and  beautiful 
princesses,  all  this  will  seem  a  strange  dream, 
and  you  will  be  glad  you  are  awake — and  free." 

"The  idea  of  marrying  you,  Monica,"  said 
Everett,  "is  not  new.  It  did  not  occur  to  me 
only  since  we  moved  out  here  into  the  moon 
light.  Since  I  first  saw  you  I've  thought  of  you, 
and  only  of  you.  I've  thought  of  you  with  me 
in  every  corner  of  the  globe,  as  my  wife,  my 
sweetheart,  my  partner,  riding  through  jungles 
as  we  ride  here,  sitting  opposite  me  at  our  own 
table,  putting  the  proud  and  beautiful  princesses 
at  their  ease.  And  in  all  places,  at  all  moments, 
you  make  all  other  women  tawdry  and  absurd. 
And  I  don't  think  you  are  the  most  wonderful 
person  I  ever  met  because  I  love  you,  but  I 
love  you  because  you  are  the  most  wonderful 
person  I  ever  met." 

225 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

"I  am  young,"  said  Monica,  "but  since  I 
began  to  love  you  I  am  very  old.  And  I  see 
clearly  that  it  cannot  be." 

"Dear  heart,"  cried  Everett,  "that  is  quite 
morbid.  What  the  devil  do  I  care  what  your 
brother  has  done!  I  am  not  marrying  your 
brother." 

For  a  long  time,  leaning  forward  with  her 
elbows  on  her  knees  and  her  face  buried  in  her 
hands,  the  girl  sat  silent.  It  was  as  though  she 
were  praying.  Everett  knew  it  was  not  of  him, 
but  of  her  brother,  she  was  thinking,  and  his 
heart  ached  for  her.  For  him  to  cut  the 
brother  out  of  his  life  was  not  difficult;  what  it 
meant  to  her  he  could  guess. 

When  the  girl  raised  her  eyes  they  were  elo 
quent  with  distress. 

"He  has  been  so  good  to  me,"  she  said;  "al 
ways  so  gentle.  He  has  been  mother  and  father 
to  me.  He  is  the  first  person  I  can  remember. 
When  I  was  a  child  he  put  me  to  bed,  he  dressed 
me,  and  comforted  me.  When  we  became  rich 
there  was  nothing  he  did  not  wish  to  give  me. 
I  cannot  leave  him.  He  needs  me  more  than 
ever  I  needed  him.  I  am  all  he  has.  And  there 
is  this  besides.  Were  I  to  marry,  of  all  the 
men  in  the  world  it  would  be  harder  for  him  if 
I  married  you.  For  if  you  succeed  in  what 
you  came  here  to  do,  the  law  will  punish  him, 

226 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COB  RE 

and  he  will  know  it  was  through  you  he  was 
punished.  And  even  between  you  and  me  there 
always  would  be  that  knowledge,  that  feeling." 
"That  is  not  fair,"  cried  Everett.  "I  am 
not  an  individual  fighting  less  fortunate  indi 
viduals.  I  am  an  insignificant  wheel  in  a  great 

machine.     You   must   not   blame   me   because 
j >» 

With  an  exclamation  the  girl  reproached 
him. 

"Because  you  do  your  duty!"  she  protested. 
"Is  that  fair  to  me?  If  for  my  sake  or  my 
brother  you  failed  in  your  duty,  if  you  were 
less  vigilant,  less  eager,  even  though  we  suffer, 
I  could  not  love  you." 

Everett  sighed  happily. 

"As  long  as  you  love  me,"  he  said,  "neither 
your  brother  nor  any  one  else  can  keep  us 
apart." 

"My  brother,"  said  the  girl,  as  though  she 
were  pronouncing  a  sentence,  "always  will  keep 
us  apart,  and  I  will  always  love  you." 

It  was  a  week  before  he  again  saw  her,  and 
then  the  feeling  he  had  read  in  her  eyes  was 
gone — or  rigorously  concealed.  Now  her  man 
ner  was  that  of  a  friend,  of  a  young  girl  address 
ing  a  man  older  than  herself,  one  to  whom  she 
looked  up  with  respect  and  liking,  but  with  no 
sign  of  any  feeling  deeper  or  more  intimate. 

227 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

It  upset  Everett  completely.  When  he  pleaded 
with  her,  she  asked: 

"Do  you  think  it  is  easy  for  me?  But — " 
she  protested,  "  I  know  I  am  doing  right.  I  am 
doing  it  to  make  you  happy." 

"You  are  succeeding,"  Everett  assured  her, 
"in  making  us  both  damned  miserable." 

For  Everett,  in  the  second  month  of  his  stay 
in  Amapala,  events  began  to  move  quickly. 
Following  the  example  of  two  of  his  predecessors, 
the  Secretary  of  State  of  the  United  States  was 
about  to  make  a  grand  tour  of  Central  America. 
He  came  on  a  mission  of  peace  and  brotherly 
love,  to  foster  confidence  and  good-will,  and  it 
was  secretly  hoped  that,  in  the  wake  of  his 
escort  of  battle-ships,  trade  would  follow  fast. 
There  would  be  salutes  and  visits  of  ceremony, 
speeches,  banquets,  reviews.  But  in  these  re 
joicings  Amapala  would  have  no  part. 

For,  so  Everett  was  informed  by  cable,  un 
less,  previous  to  the  visit  of  the  Secretary, 
Amapala  fell  into  line  with  her  sister  republics 
and  signed  a  treaty  of  extradition,  from  the 
itinerary  of  the  great  man  Amapala  would  find 
herself  pointedly  excluded.  It  would  be  a 
humiliation.  In  the  eyes  of  her  sister  republics 
it  would  place  her  outside  the  pale.  Everett 
saw  that  in  his  hands  his  friend  the  Secretary 
had  placed  a  powerful  weapon;  and  lost  no  time 

228 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

in  using  it.  He  caught  the  President  alone, 
sitting  late  at  his  dinner,  surrounded  by  bottles, 
and  read  to  him  the  Secretary's  ultimatum. 
General  Mendoza  did  not  at  once  surrender. 
Before  he  threw  over  the  men  who  fed  him  the 
golden  eggs  that  made  him  rich,  and  for  whom 
he  had  sworn  never  to  violate  the  right  of  sanc 
tuary,  he  first,  for  fully  half  an  hour,  raged  and 
swore.  During  that  time,  while  Everett  sat 
anxiously  expectant,  the  President  paced  and 
repaced  the  length  of  the  dining-hall.  When 
to  relight  his  cigar,  or  to  gulp  brandy  from  a 
tumbler,  he  halted  at  the  table,  his  great  bulk 
loomed  large  in  the  flickering  candle-flames,  and 
when  he  continued  his  march,  he  would  disap 
pear  into  the  shadows,  and  only  his  scabbard 
clanking  on  the  stone  floor  told  of  his  presence. 
At  last  he  halted  and  shrugged  his  shoulders 
so  that  the  tassels  of  his  epaulets  tossed  like 
wheat. 

"You  drive  a  hard  bargain,  sir,"  he  said. 
"And  I  have  no  choice.  To-morrow  bring  the 
treaty  and  I  will  sign." 

Everett  at  once  produced  it  and  a  fountain 
pen. 

"I  should  like  to  cable  to-night,"  he  urged, 
"that  you  have  signed.  They  are  holding  back 
the  public  announcement  of  the  Secretary's 
route  until  hearing  from  Your  Excellency.  This 

229 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

is  only  tentative,"  he  pointed  out;  "the  Senate 
must  ratify.  But  our  Senate  will  ratify  it,  and 
when  you  sign  now,  it  is  a  thing  accomplished." 

Over  the  place  at  which  Everett  pointed,  the 
pen  scratched  harshly;  and  then,  throwing  it 
from  him,  the  President  sat  in  silence.  With 
eyes  inflamed  by  anger  and  brandy  he  regarded 
the  treaty  venomously.  As  though  loath  to 
let  it  go,  his  hands  played  with  it,  as  a  cat  plays 
with  the  mouse  between  her  paws.  Watching 
him  breathlessly,  Everett  feared  the  end  was 
not  yet.  He  felt  a  depressing  premonition  that 
if  ever  the  treaty  were  to  reach  Washington  he 
best  had  snatch  it  and  run.  Even  as  he  waited, 
the  end  came.  An  orderly,  appearing  suddenly 
in  the  light  of  the  candles,  announced  the  ar 
rival,  in  the  room  adjoining,  of  "the  Colonel 
Goddard  and  Sefior  Mellen."  They  desired  an 
immediate  audience.  Their  business  with  the 
President  was  most  urgent.  Whether  from 
Washington  their  agents  had  warned  them, 
whether  in  Camaguay  they  had  deciphered  the 
cablegram  from  the  State  Department,  Everett 
could  only  guess,  but  he  was  certain  the  cause 
of  their  visit  was  the  treaty.  That  Mendoza 
also  believed  this  was  most  evident. 

Into  the  darkness,  from  which  the  two  exiles 
might  emerge,  he  peered  guiltily.  With  an 
oath  he  tore  the  treaty  in  half.  Crushing  the 

230 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

pieces  of  paper  into  a  ball,  he  threw  it  at  Ever 
ett's  feet.  His  voice  rose  to  a  shriek.  It  was 
apparent  he  intended  his  words  to  carry  to  the 
men  outside.  Like  an  actor  on  a  stage  he 
waved  his  arms. 

"That  is  my  answer!"  he  shouted.  "Tell 
your  Secretary  the  choice  he  offers  is  an  insult ! 
It  is  blackmail.  We  will  not  sign  his  treaty. 
We  do  not  desire  his  visit  to  our  country." 
Thrilled  by  his  own  bravado,  his  voice  rose 
higher.  "Nor,"  he  shouted,  "do  we  desire  the 
presence  of  his  representative.  Your  usefulness 
is  at  an  end.  You  will  receive  your  passports 
in  the  morning." 

As  he  might  discharge  a  cook,  he  waved 
Everett  away.  His  hand,  trembling  with  ex 
citement,  closed  around  the  neck  of  the  brandy- 
bottle.  Everett  stooped  and  secured  the  treaty. 
On  his  return  to  Washington,  torn  and  rumpled 
as  it  was,  it  would  be  his  justification.  It  was 
his  "Exhibit  A." 

As  he  approached  the  legation  he  saw  drawn 
up  in  front  of  it  three  ponies  ready  saddled. 
For  an  instant  he  wondered  if  Mendoza  intended 
further  to  insult  him,  if  he  planned  that  night 
to  send  him  under  guard  to  the  coast.  He  de 
termined  hotly  sooner  than  submit  to  such  an 
indignity  he  would  fortify  the  legation,  and 
defend  himself.  But  no  such  heroics  were  re- 

231 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

quired  of  him.  As  he  reached  the  door,  Gar 
land,  with  an  exclamation  of  relief,  hailed  him, 
and  Monica,  stepping  from  the  shadow,  laid 
an  appealing  hand  upon  his  sleeve. 

"My  brother!"  she  exclaimed.  "The  guard 
at  Cobre  has  just  sent  word  that  they  found 
Peabody  prowling  in  the  ruins  and  fired  on  him. 
He  fired  back,  and  he  is  still  there  hiding.  My 
brother  and  others  have  gone  to  take  him.  I 
don't  know  what  may  happen  if  he  resists. 
Chester  is  armed,  and  he  is  furious;  he  is  beside 
himself;  he  would  not  listen  to  me.  But  he 
must  listen  to  you.  Will  you  go,"  the  girl 
begged,  "and  speak  to  him;  speak  to  him,  I 
mean,"  she  added,  "as  the  American  minister?" 

Everett  already  had  his  foot  in  the  stirrup. 
"I'm  the  American  minister  only  until  to-mor 
row,"  he  said.  "I've  got  my  walking-papers. 
But  I'll  do  all  I  can  to  stop  this  to-night.  Gar 
land,"  he  asked,  "will  you  take  Miss  Ward 
home,  and  then  follow  me?" 

"If  I  do  not  go  with  you,"  said  Monica,  "I 
will  go  alone." 

Her  tone  was  final.  With  a  clatter  of  hoofs 
that  woke  alarmed  echoes  in  the  sleeping 
streets  the  three  horses  galloped  abreast  toward 
Cobre.  In  an  hour  they  left  the  main  trail  and 
at  a  walk  picked  their  way  to  where  the  blocks 
of  stone,  broken  columns,  and  crumbling  tem- 

232 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

pies  of  the  half-buried  city  checked  the  jun 
gle. 

The  moon  made  it  possible  to  move  in  safety, 
and  at  different  distances  the  lights  of  torches 
told  them  the  man-hunt  still  was  in  progress. 

"Thank  God,**  breathed  Monica,  "we  are 
in  time.'* 

Everett  gave  the  ponies  in  care  of  one  of  the 
guards.  He  turned  to  Garland. 

"Catch  up  with  those  lights  ahead  of  us,**  he 
said,  "and  we  will  join  this  party  to  the  right. 
If  you  find  Ward,  tell  him  I  forbid  him  taking 
the  law  into  his  own  hands;  tell  him  I  will  pro 
tect  his  interests.  If  you  meet  Peabody,  make 
him  give  up  his  gun,  and  see  that  the  others 
don't  harm  him!** 

Everett  and  the  girl  did  not  overtake  the 
lights  they  had  seen  flashing  below  them.  Be 
fore  they  were  within  hailing  distance,  that 
searching  party  had  disappeared,  and  still  far 
ther  away  other  torches  beckoned. 

Stumbling  and  falling,  now  in  pursuit  of  one 
will-o'-the-wisp,  now  of  another,  they  scrambled 
forward.  But  always  the  lights  eluded  them. 
From  their  exertions  and  the  moist  heat  they 
were  breathless,  and  their  bodies  dripped  with 
water.  Panting,  they  halted  at  the  entrance  of 
what  once  had  been  a  tomb.  From  its  black 
interior  came  a  damp  mist;  above  them,  alarmed 

233 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

by  their  intrusion,  the  vampire  bats  whirled 
blindly  in  circles.  Monica,  who  by  day  pos 
sessed  some  slight  knowledge  of  the  ruins,  had, 
in  the  moonlight,  lost  all  sense  of  direction. 

"We're  lost,"  said  Monica,  in  a  low  tone. 
Unconsciously  both  were  speaking  in  whispers. 
"I  thought  we  were  following  what  used  to  be 
the  main  thoroughfare  of  the  city;  but  I  have 
never  seen  this  place  before.  From  what  I 
have  read  I  think  we  must  be  among  the  tombs 
of  the  kings." 

She  was  silenced  by  Everett  placing  one  hand 
quickly  on  her  arm,  and  with  the  other  pointing. 
In  the  uncertain  moonlight  she  saw  moving 
cautiously  away  from  them,  and  unconscious 
of  their  presence,  a  white,  ghostlike  figure. 

"Peabody,"  whispered  Everett. 

"Call  him,"  commanded  Monica. 

"The  others  might  hear,"  objected  Everett. 
"We  must  overtake  him.  If  we're  with  him 
when  they  meet,  they  wouldn't  dare " 

With  a  gasp  of  astonishment,  his  words 
ceased. 

Like  a  ghost,  the  ghostlike  figure  had  van 
ished. 

"He  walked  through  that  rock!"  cried  Mon 
ica. 

Everett  caught  her  by  the  wrist.  "Come!" 
he  commanded. 

234 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

Over  the  face  of  the  rock,  into  which  Peabody 
had  dived  as  into  water,  hung  a  curtain  of  vines. 
Everett  tore  it  apart.  Concealed  by  the  vines 
was  the  narrow  mouth  to  a  tunnel;  and  from  it 
they  heard,  rapidly  lessening  in  the  distance, 
the  patter  of  footsteps. 

"Will  you  wait,"  demanded  Everett,  "or 
come  with  me?" 

With  a  shudder  of  distaste,  Monica  answered 
by  seizing  his  hand. 

With  his  free  arm  Everett  swept  aside  the 
vines,  and,  Monica  following,  they  entered 
the  tunnel.  It  was  a  passageway  cleanly  cut 
through  the  solid  rock  and  sufficiently  wide  to 
permit  of  their  moving  freely.  At  the  farther 
end,  at  a  distance  of  a  hundred  yards,  it  opened 
into  a  great  vault,  also  hollowed  from  the  rock 
and,  as  they  saw  to  their  surprise,  brilliantly 
lighted. 

For  an  instant,  in  black  silhouette,  the  figure 
of  Peabody  blocked  the  entrance  to  this  vault, 
and  then,  turning  to  the  right,  again  vanished. 
Monica  felt  an  untimely  desire  to  laugh.  Now 
that  they  were  on  the  track  of  Peabody  she  no 
longer  feared  the  outcome  of  the  adventure. 
In  the  presence  of  the  American  minister  and 
of  herself  there  would  be  no  violence;  and  as 
they  trailed  the  archaeologist  through  the  tunnel 
she  was  reminded  of  Alice  and  her  pursuit  of 

235 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

the  white  rabbit.  This  thought,  and  her  sense 
of  relief  that  the  danger  was  over,  caused  her 
to  laugh  aloud. 

They  had  gained  the  farther  end  of  the  tun 
nel  and  the  entrance  to  the  vault,  when  at  once 
her  amusement  turned  to  wonder.  For  the 
vault  showed  every  evidence  of  use  and  of 
recent  occupation.  In  brackets,  and  burning 
brightly,  were  lamps  of  modern  make;  on  the 
stone  floor  stood  a  canvas  cot,  saddle-bags, 
camp-chairs,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  vault  a 
collapsible  table.  On  this  were  bottles  filled 
with  chemicals,  trays,  and  presses  such  as  are 
used  in  developing  photographs,  and  appar 
ently  hung  there  to  dry,  swinging  from  strings, 
the  proofs  of  many  negatives. 

Loyal  to  her  brother,  Monica  exclaimed  in 
dignantly.  At  the  proofs  she  pointed  an  ac 
cusing  finger. 

"Look!"  she  whispered.  "This  is  Peabody's 
darkroom,  where  he  develops  the  flash-lights  he 
takes  of  the  hieroglyphs !  Chester  has  a  right 
to  be  furious!" 

Impulsively  she  would  have  pushed  past 
Everett;  but  with  an  exclamation  he  sprang  in 
front  of  her. 

"No!"  he  commanded,  "come  away!" 

He  had  fallen  into  a  sudden  panic.  His  tone 
spoke  of  some  catastrophe,  imminent  and  over- 

236 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

whelming.  Monica  followed  the  direction  of 
his  eyes.  They  were  staring  in  fear  at  the 
proofs. 

The  girl  leaned  forward;  and  now  saw  them 
clearly. 

Each  was  a  United  States  Treasury  note  for 
five  hundred  dollars. 

Around  the  turn  of  the  tunnel,  approaching 
the  vault  apparently  from  another  passage,  they 
heard  hurrying  footsteps;  and  then,  close  to 
them  from  the  vault  itself,  the  voice  of  Professor 
Peabody. 

It  was  harsh,  sharp,  peremptory. 

"Hands  up!*'  it  commanded.  "Drop  that 
gun!" 

As  though  halted  by  a  precipice,  the  footsteps 
fell  into  instant  silence.  There  was  a  pause, 
and  then  the  ring  of  steel  upon  the  stone  floor. 
There  was  another  pause,  and  Monica  heard  the 
voice  of  her  brother.  Broken,  as  though  with 
running,  it  still  retained  its  level  accent,  its 
note  of  insolence. 

"So,"  it  said,  "I  have  caught  you?" 

Monica  struggled  toward  the  lighted  vault, 
but  around  her  Everett  threw  his  arm. 

"Come  away!"  he  begged. 

Monica  fought  against  the  terror  of  something 
unknown.  She  could  not  understand.  They 
had  come  only  to  prevent  a  meeting  between 

237 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

her  brother  and  Peabody;  and  now  that  they 
had  met,  Everett  was  endeavoring  to  escape. 

It  was  incomprehensible. 

And  the  money  in  the  vault,  the  yellow  bills 
hanging  from  a  cobweb  of  strings;  why  should 
they  terrify  her;  what  did  they  threaten? 
Dully,  and  from  a  distance,  Monica  heard  the 
voice  of  Peabody. 

"No,"  he  answered;  "I  have  caught  you! 
And  I've  had  a  hell  of  a  time  doing  it !" 

Monica  tried  to  call  out,  to  assure  her  brother 
of  her  presence.  But,  as  though  in  a  nightmare, 
she  could  make  no  sound.  Fingers  of  fear 
gripped  at  her  throat.  To  struggle  was  no 
longer  possible. 

The  voice  of  Peabody  continued: 

"Six  months  ago  we  traced  these  bills  to  New 
Orleans.  So  we  guessed  the  plant  was  in  Cen 
tral  America.  We  knew  only  one  man  who 
could  make  them.  When  I  found  you  were  in 
Amapala  and  they  said  you  had  struck  *  buried 
treasure* — the  rest  was  easy." 

Monica  heard  the  voice  of  her  brother  answer 
with  a  laugh. 

"Easy?"  he  mocked.  "There's  no  extradi 
tion.  You  can't  touch  me.  You're  lucky  if 
you  get  out  of  here  alive.  I've  only  to  raise 
my  voice " 

"And,  I'll  kill  you!" 

This  was  danger  Monica  could  understand. 
238 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

Freed  from  the  nightmare  of  doubt,  with  a 
cry  she  ran  forward.  She  saw  Peabody,  his 
back  against  a  wall,  a  levelled  automatic  in  his 
hand;  her  brother  at  the  entrance  to  a  tunnel 
like  the  one  from  which  she  had  just  appeared. 
His  arms  were  raised  above  his  head.  At  his 
feet  lay  a  revolver.  For  an  instant,  with  disbe 
lief,  he  stared  at  Monica,  and  then,  as  though 
assured  that  it  was  she,  his  eyes  dilated.  In 
them  were  fear  and  horror.  So  genuine  was 
the  agony  in  the  face  of  the  counterfeiter  that 
Everett,  who  had  followed,  turned  his  own 
away.  But  the  eyes  of  the  brother  and  sister 
remained  fixed  upon  each  other,  hers,  appeal- 
ingly;  his,  with  despair.  He  tried  to  speak, 
but  the  words  did  not  come.  When  he  did 
break  the  silence  his  tone  was  singularly  wist 
ful,  most  tenderly  kind. 

"Did  you  hear?"  he  asked. 

Monica  slowly  bowed  her  head.  With  the 
same  note  of  gentleness  her  brother  persisted : 

"Did  you  understand?" 

Between  them  stretched  the  cobweb  of  strings 
hung  with  yellow  certificates;  each  calling  for 
five  hundred  dollars,  payable  in  gold.  Stirred 
by  the  night  air  from  the  open  tunnels,  they 
fluttered  and  flaunted. 

Against  the  sight  of  them,  Monica  closed  her 
eyes.  Heavily,  as  though  with  a  great  physical 
effort,  again  she  bowed  her  head. 

'239 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

The  eyes  of  her  brother  searched  about  him 
wildly.  They  rested  on  the  mouth  of  the 
tunnel. 

With  his  lowered  arm  he  pointed. 

"Who  is  that?"  he  cried. 

Instinctively  the  others  turned. 

It  was  for  an  instant.     The  instant  sufficed. 

Monica  saw  her  brother  throw  himself  upon 
the  floor,  felt  herself  flung  aside  as  Everett  and 
the  detective  leaped  upon  him;  saw  her  brother 
press  his  hands  against  his  heart,  the  two  men 
dragging  at  his  arms. 

The  cavelike  room  was  shaken  with  a  report, 
an  acrid  smoke  assailed  her  nostrils.  The  men 
ceased  struggling.  Her  brother  lay  still. 

Monica  sprang  toward  the  body,  but  a  black 
wave  rose  and  submerged  her.  As  she  fainted, 
to  save  herself  she  threw  out  her  arms,  and  as 
she  fell  she  dragged  down  with  her  the  buried 
treasure  of  Cobre. 

Stretched  upon  the  stone  floor  beside  her 
brother,  she  lay  motionless.  Beneath  her,  and 
wrapped  about  and  covering  her,  as  the  leaves 
covered  the  babes  in  the  wood,  was  a  vast  cob 
web  of  yellow  bills,  each  for  five  hundred  dol 
lars,  payable  in  gold. 

A  month  later  the  harbor  of  Porto  Cortez  in 
Honduras  was  shaken  with  the  roar  of  cannon. 

240 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

In  comparison,  the  roaring  of  all  the  cannon  of 
all  the  revolutions  that  that  distressful  country 
ever  had  known,  were  like  fire-crackers  under  a 
barrel. 

Faithful  to  his  itinerary,  the  Secretary  of 
State  of  the  United  States  was  paying  his  for 
mal  visit  to  Honduras,  and  the  President  of 
that  republic,  waiting  upon  the  Fruit  Company's 
wharf  to  greet  him,  was  receiving  the  salute  of 
the  American  battle-ships.  Back  of  him,  on 
the  wharf,  his  own  barefooted  artillerymen  in 
their  turn  were  saluting,  excitedly  and  spas 
modically,  the  distinguished  visitor.  As  an 
honor  he  had  at  last  learned  to  accept  without 
putting  a  finger  in  each  ear,  the  Secretary  of 
State  smiled  with  gracious  calm.  Less  calm 
was  the  President  of  Honduras.  He  knew 
something  the  Secretary  did  not  know.  He 
knew  that  at  any  moment  a  gun  of  his  saluting 
battery  might  turn  turtle,  or  blow  into  the 
harbor  himself,  his  cabinet,  and  the  larger  part 
of  his  standing  army. 

Made  fast  to  the  wharf  on  the  side  opposite 
to  the  one  at  which  the  Secretary  had  landed 
was  one  of  the  Fruit  Company's  steamers.  She 
was  on  her  way  north,  and  Porto  Cortez  was  a 
port  of  call.  That  her  passengers  might  not 
intrude  upon  the  ceremonies,  her  side  of  the 
wharf  was  roped  off  and  guarded  by  the  stand- 

241 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

ing  army.  But  from  her  decks  and  from  be 
hind  the  ropes  the  passengers,  with  a  battery 
of  cameras,  were  perpetuating  the  historic  scene. 

Among  them,  close  to  the  ropes,  viewing  the 
ceremony  with  the  cynical  eye  of  one  who  in 
Europe  had  seen  kings  and  emperors  meet  upon 
the  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold,  was  Everett. 
He  made  no  effort  to  bring  himself  to  the  atten 
tion  of  his  former  chief.  But  when  the  intro 
ductions  were  over,  the  Secretary  of  State 
turned  his  eyes  to  his  fellow  countrymen  crowd 
ing  the  rails  of  the  American  steamer.  They 
greeted  him  with  cheers.  The  great  man  raised 
his  hat,  and  his  eyes  fell  upon  Everett.  The 
Secretary  advanced  quickly,  his  hand  extended, 
brushing  to  one  side  the  standing  army. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?'*  he  demanded. 

"On  my  way  home,  sir,"  said  Everett.  "I 
couldn't  leave  sooner;  there  were — personal 
reasons.  But  I  cabled  the  department  my 
resignation  the  day  Mendoza  gave  me  my 
walking-papers.  You  may  remember,"  Ever 
ett  added  dryly,  "the  department  accepted  by 
cable." 

The  great  man  showed  embarrassment. 

"It  was  most  unfortunate,"  he  sympathized. 
"We  wanted  that  treaty,  and  while,  no  doubt, 
you  made  every  effort " 

He  became  aware  of  the  fact  that  Everett's 
242 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

attention  was  not  exclusively  his  own.  Follow 
ing  the  direction  of  the  young  man's  eyes  the 
Secretary  saw  on  the  deck  just  above  them, 
leaning  upon  the  rail,  a  girl  in  deep  mourn 
ing. 

She  was  very  beautiful.  Her  face  was  as 
lovely  as  a  violet  and  as  shy.  To  the  Secretary 
a  beautiful  woman  was  always  a  beautiful 
woman.  But  he  had  read  the  papers.  Who 
had  not?  He  was  sure  there  must  be  some 
mistake.  This  could  not  be  the  sister  of  a 
criminal;  the  woman  for  whom  Everett  had 
smashed  his  career. 

The  Secretary  masked  his  astonishment,  but 
not  his  admiration. 

"Mrs.  Everett?"  he  asked.  His  very  tone 
conveyed  congratulations. 

"Yes,"  said  the  ex-diplomat.  "Some  day  I 
shall  be  glad  to  present  you." 

The  Secretary  did  not  wait  for  an  introduc 
tion.  Raising  his  eyes  to  the  ship's  rail,  he 
made  a  deep  and  courtly  bow.  With  a  gesture 
worthy  of  d'Artagnan,  his  high  hat  swept  the 
wharf.  The  members  of  his  staff,  the  officers 
from  the  war-ships,  the  President  of  Honduras 
and  the  members  of  bis  staff  endeavored  to 
imitate  his  act  of  homage,  and  in  confusion 
Mrs.  Everett  blushed  becomingly. 

"When  I  return  to  Washington,"  said  the 
243 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

Secretary  hastily,  "come  and  see  me.  You  are 
too  valuable  to  lose.  Your  career " 

Again  Everett  was  looking  at  his  wife.  Her 
distress  at  having  been  so  suddenly  drawn  into 
the  lime-light  amused  him,  and  he  was  smiling. 
Then,  as  though  aware  of  the  Secretary's  mean 
ing,  he  laughed. 

"My  dear  sir  !"  he  protested.  His  tone  sug 
gested  he  was  about  to  add  "mind  your  own 
business,"  or  "go  to  the  devil." 

Instead  he  said:  "I'm  not  worrying  about  my 
career.  My  career  has  just  begun." 


244 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

A  RULE  of  the  Boy  Scouts  is  every  day  to  do 
some  one  a  good  turn.  Not  because  the  copy 
books  tell  you  it  deserves  another,  but  in  spite 
of  that  pleasing  possibility.  If  you  are  a  true 
scout,  until  you  have  performed  your  act  of 
kindness  your  day  is  dark.  You  are  as  un 
happy  as  is  the  grown-up  who  has  begun  his 
day  without  shaving  or  reading  the  New  York 
Sun.  But  as  soon  as  you  have  proved  yourself 
you  may,  with  a  clear  conscience,  look  the 
world  in  the  face  and  untie  the  knot  in  your 
kerchief. 

Jimmie  Reeder  untied  the  accusing  knot  in 
his  scarf  at  just  ten  minutes  past  eight  on  a  hot 
August  morning  after  he  had  given  one  dime 
to  his  sister  Sadie.  With  that  she  could  either 
witness  the  first-run  films  at  the  Palace,  or  by 
dividing  her  fortune  patronize  two  of  the  nickel 
shows  on  Lenox  Avenue.  The  choice  Jimmie 
left  to  her.  He  was  setting  out  for  the  annual 
encampment  of  the  Boy  Scouts  at  Hunter's 
Island,  and  in  the  excitement  of  that  adventure 
even  the  movies  ceased  to  thrill.  But  Sadie 
also  could  be  unselfish.  With  a  heroism  of  a 

245 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

camp-fire  maiden  she  made  a  gesture  which 
might  have  been  interpreted  to  mean  she  was 
returning  the  money. 

"I  can't,  Jimmie!"  she  gasped.  "I  can't 
take  it  off  you.  You  saved  it,  and  you  ought 
to  get  the  fun  of  it." 

"  I  haven't  saved  it  yet,"  said  Jimmie.  "  I'm 
going  to  cut  it  out  of  the  railroad  fare.  I'm 
going  to  get  off  at  City  Island  instead  of  at 
Pelham  Manor  and  walk  the  difference.  That's 
ten  cents  cheaper." 

Sadie  exclaimed  with  admiration: 
"An*  you  carry  in*  that  heavy  grip!" 
"Aw,  that's  nothin',"  said  the  man  of  the 
family. 

"Good-by,  mother.     So  long,  Sadie." 
To  ward  off  further  expressions  of  gratitude 
he  hurriedly  advised  Sadie  to  take  in   "The 
Curse  of  Cain"  rather  than  "The  Mohawk's 
Last  Stand,"  and  fled  down  the  front  steps. 

He  wore  his  khaki  uniform.  On  his  shoulders 
was  his  knapsack,  from  his  hands  swung  his 
suit-case,  and  between  his  heavy  stockings  and 
his  "shorts"  his  kneecaps,  unkissed  by  the  sun, 
as  yet  unscathed  by  blackberry  vines,  showed 
as  white  and  fragile  as  the  wrists  of  a  girl.  As 
he  moved  toward  the  "L"  station  at  the  corner, 
Sadie  and  his  mother  waved  to  him;  in  the 
street,  boys  too  small  to  be  scouts  hailed  him 

246 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

enviously;  even  the  policeman  glancing  over 
the  newspapers  on  the  news-stand  nodded  ap 
proval. 

"You  a  scout,  Jimmie?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  retorted  Jimmie,  for  was  not  he  also 
in  uniform?  "I'm  Santa  Glaus  out  filling 
Christmas  stockings." 

The  patrolman  also  possessed  a  ready  wit. 

"Then  get  yourself  a  pair,"  he  advised.  "If 
a  dog  was  to  see  your  legs " 

Jimmie  escaped  the  insult  by  fleeing  up  the 
steps  of  the  Elevated. 

An  hour  later,  with  his  valise  in  one  hand 
and  staff  in  the  other,  he  was  tramping  up  the 
Boston  Post  Road  and  breathing  heavily.  The 
day  was  cruelly  hot.  Before  his  eyes,  over  an 
interminable  stretch  of  asphalt,  the  heat  waves 
danced  and  flickered.  Already  the  knapsack  on 
his  shoulders  pressed  upon  him  like  an  Old  Man 
of  the  Sea;  the  linen  in  the  valise  had  turned  to 
pig  iron,  his  pipe-stem  legs  were  wabbling,  his 
eyes  smarted  with  salt  sweat,  and  the  fingers 
supporting  the  valise  belonged  to  some  other 
boy,  and  were  giving  that  boy  much  pain.  But 
as  the  motor-cars  flashed  past  with  raucous 
warnings,  or,  that  those  who  rode  might  better 
see  the  boy  with  bare  knees,  passed  at  "half 
speed,"  Jimmie  stiffened  his  shoulders  and 

247 


THE  BOY   SCOUT 

stepped  jauntily  forward.  Even  when  the  joy 
riders  mocked  with  "Oh,  you  scout!"  he  smiled 
at  them.  He  was  willing  to  admit  to  those 
who  rode  that  the  laugh  was  on  the  one  who 
walked.  And  he  regretted — oh,  so  bitterly — 
having  left  the  train.  He  was  indignant  that 
for  his  "one  good  turn  a  day"  he  had  not 
selected  one  less  strenuous — that,  for  instance, 
he  had  not  assisted  a  frightened  old  lady  through 
the  traffic.  To  refuse  the  dime  she  might  have 
offered,  as  all  true  scouts  refuse  all  tips,  would 
have  been  easier  than  to  earn  it  by  walking 
five  miles,  with  the  sun  at  ninety-nine  degrees, 
and  carrying  excess  baggage.  Twenty  times 
James  shifted  the  valise  to  the  other  hand, 
twenty  times  he  let  it  drop  and  sat  upon  it. 

And  then,  as  again  he  took  up  his  burden, 
the  good  Samaritan  drew  near.  He  drew  near 
in  a  low  gray  racing-car  at  the  rate  of  forty 
miles  an  hour,  and  within  a  hundred  feet  of 
Jimmie  suddenly  stopped  and  backed  toward 
him.  The  good  Samaritan  was  a  young  man 
with  white  hair.  He  wore  a  suit  of  blue,  a  golf 
cap;  the  hands  that  held  the  wheel  were  dis 
guised  in  large  yellow  gloves.  He  brought  the 
car  to  a  halt  and  surveyed  the  dripping  figure 
in  the  road  with  tired  and  uncurious  eyes. 

"You  a  Boy  Scout?"  he  asked. 

With  alacrity  for  the  twenty-first  time  Jim- 
248 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

mie  dropped  the  valise,  forced  his  cramped  fin 
gers  into  straight  lines,  and  saluted. 

The  young  man  in  the  car  nodded  toward  the 
seat  beside  him. 

"Get  in,"  he  commanded. 

When  James  sat  panting  happily  at  his  elbow 
the  old  young  man,  to  Jimmie's  disappoint 
ment,  did  not  continue  to  shatter  the  speed 
limit.  Instead,  he  seemed  inclined  for  con 
versation,  and  the  car,  growling  indignantly, 
crawled. 

"I  never  saw  a  Boy  Scout  before,"  announced 
the  old  young  man.  "Tell  me  about  it.  First, 
tell  me  what  you  do  when  you're  not  scouting." 

Jimmie  explained  volubly.  When  not  in  uni 
form  he  was  an  office  boy,  and  from  peddlers 
and  beggars  guarded  the  gates  of  Carroll  and 
Hastings,  stock-brokers.  He  spoke  the  names 
of  his  employers  with  awe.  It  was  a  firm  dis 
tinguished,  conservative,  and  long  established. 
The  white-haired  young  man  seemed  to  nod  in 
assent. 

"Do  you  know  them?"  demanded  Jimmie 
suspiciously.  "Are  you  a  customer  of  ours?" 

"  I  know  them,"  said  the  young  man.  "They 
are  customers  of  mine." 

Jimmie  wondered  in  what  way  Carroll  and 
Hastings  were  customers  of  the  white-haired 
young  man.  Judging  him  by  his  outer  gar- 

249 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

ments,  Jimmie  guessed  he  was  a  Fifth  Avenue 
tailor;  he  might  be  even  a  haberdasher.  Jimmie 
continued.  He  lived,  he  explained,  with  his 
mother  at  One  Hundred  and  Forty-sixth  Street; 
Sadie,  his  sister,  attended  the  public  school;  he 
helped  support  them  both,  and  he  now  was 
about  to  enjoy  a  well-earned  vacation  camping 
out  on  Hunter's  Island,  where  he  would  cook 
his  own  meals,  and,  if  the  mosquitoes  permitted, 
sleep  in  a  tent. 

"And  you  like  that?"  demanded  the  young 
man.  "You  call  that  fun?" 

"Sure!"  protested  Jimmie.  "Don't  you  go 
camping  out?" 

"I  go  camping  out,"  said  the  good  Samari 
tan,  "whenever  I  leave  New  York." 

Jimmie  had  not  for  three  years  lived  in  Wall 
Street  not  to  understand  that  the  young  man 
spoke  in  metaphor. 

"You  don't  look,"  objected  the  young  man 
critically,  "as  though  you  were  built  for  the 
strenuous  life." 

Jimmie  glanced  guiltily  at  his  white  knees. 

"You  ought  ter  see  me  two  weeks  from  now," 
he  protested.  "I  get  all  sunburnt  and  hard — 
hard  as  anything !" 

The  young  man  was  incredulous. 

"You  were  near  getting  sunstruck  when  I 
picked  you  up,"  he  laughed.  "If  you're  going 

250 


THE   BOY  SCOUT 

to  Hunter's  Island,  why  didn't  you  go  to  Pel- 
ham  Manor?" 

"That's  right!"  assented  Jimmie  eagerly. 
"But  I  wanted  to  save  the  ten  cents  so's  to 
send  Sadie  to  the  movies.  So  I  walked." 

The  young  man  looked  his  embarrassment. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  murmured. 

But  Jimmie  did  not  hear  him.  From  the 
back  of  the  car  he  was  dragging  excitedly  at 
the  hated  suit-case. 

"Stop !"  he  commanded.  "I  got  ter  get  out. 
I  got  ter  walk." 

The  young  man  showed  his  surprise. 

"Walk!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  is  it— a 
bet?" 

Jimmie  dropped  the  valise  and  followed  it 
into  the  roadway.  It  took  some  time  to  ex 
plain  to  the  young  man.  First,  he  had  to  be 
told  about  the  scout  law  and  the  one  good  turn 
a  day,  and  that  it  must  involve  some  personal 
sacrifice.  And,  as  Jimmie  pointed  out,  chang 
ing  from  a  slow  suburban  train  to  a  racing-car 
could  not  be  listed  as  a  sacrifice.  He  had  not 
earned  the  money,  Jimmie  argued;  he  had  only 
avoided  paying  it  to  the  railroad.  If  he  did 
not  walk  he  would  be  obtaining  the  gratitude 
of  Sadie  by  a  falsehood.  Therefore,  he  must 
walk. 

"Not  at  all,"  protested  the  young  man. 
251 


THE  BOY   SCOUT 

"You've  got  it  wrong.  What  good  will  it  do 
your  sister  to  have  you  sunstruck?  I  think 
you  are  sunstruck.  You're  crazy  with  the  heat. 
You  get  in  here,  and  we'll  talk  it  over  as  we  go 
along." 

Hastily  Jimmie  backed  away.  "I'd  rather 
walk,"  he  said. 

The  young  man  shifted  his  legs  irritably. 

"Then  how'II  this  suit  you?"  he  called. 
"We'll  declare  that  first  'one  good  turn'  a  fail 
ure  and  start  afresh.  Do  me  a  good  turn." 

Jimmie  halted  in  his  tracks  and  looked  back 
suspiciously. 

"I'm  going  to  Hunter's  Island  Inn,"  called 
the  young  man,  "and  I've  lost  my  way.  You 
get  in  here  and  guide  me.  That'll  be  doing  me 
a  good  turn." 

On  either  side  of  the  road,  blotting  out  the 
landscape,  giant  hands  picked  out  in  electric- 
light  bulbs  pointed  the  way  to  Hunter's  Island 
Inn.  Jimmie  grinned  and  nodded  toward  them. 

"Much  obliged,"  he  called.  "I  got  ter 
walk."  Turning  his  back  upon  temptation,  he 
waddled  forward  into  the  flickering  heat  waves. 

The  young  man  did  not  attempt  to  pursue. 
At  the  side  of  the  road,  under  the  shade  of  a 
giant  elm,  he  had  brought  the  car  to  a  halt  and 
with  his  arms  crossed  upon  the  wheel  sat  mo- 

252 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

tionless,  following  with  frowning  eyes  the  re 
treating  figure  of  Jimmie.  But  the  narrow- 
chested  and  knock-kneed  boy  staggering  over 
the  sun-baked  asphalt  no  longer  concerned  him. 
It  was  not  Jimmie,  but  the  code  preached  by 
Jimmie,  and  not  only  preached  but  before  his 
eyes  put  into  practice,  that  interested  him.  The 
young  man  with  white  hair  had  been  running 
away  from  temptation.  At  forty  miles  an  hour 
he  had  been  running  away  from  the  temptation 
to  do  a  fellow  mortal  "a  good  turn."  That 
morning,  to  the  appeal  of  a  drowning  Caesar  to 
"Help  me,  Cassius,  or  I  sink,"  he  had  answered: 
"Sink!"  That  answer  he  had  no  wish  to  re 
consider.  That  he  might  not  reconsider  he 
had  sought  to  escape.  It  was  his  experience 
that  a  sixty-horse-power  racing-machine  is  a 
jealous  mistress.  For  retrospective,  sentimen 
tal,  or  philanthropic  thoughts  she  grants  no 
leave  of  absence.  But  he  had  not  escaped. 
Jimmie  had  halted  him,  tripped  him  by  the 
heels,  and  set  him  again  to  thinking.  Within 
the  half-hour  that  followed  those  who  rolled 
past  saw  at  the  side  of  the  road  a  car  with  her 
engine  running,  and  leaning  upon  the  wheel,  as 
unconscious  of  his  surroundings  as  though  he 
sat  at  his  own  fireplace,  a  young  man  who 
frowned  and  stared  at  nothing.  The  half-hour 
passed  and  the  young  man  swung  his  car  back 

253 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

toward  the  city.  But  at  the  first  road-house 
that  showed  a  blue-and-white  telephone  sign 
he  left  it,  and  into  the  iron  box  at  the  end  of 
the  bar  dropped  a  nickel.  He  wished  to  com 
municate  with  Mr.  Carroll,  of  Carroll  and  Hast 
ings;  and  when  he  learned  Mr.  Carroll  had  just 
issued  orders  that  he  must  not  be  disturbed, 
the  young  man  gave  his  name. 

The  effect  upon  the  barkeeper  was  instan 
taneous.  With  the  aggrieved  air  of  one  who 
feels  he  is  the  victim  of  a  jest  he  laughed  scorn- 
fully. 

"What  are  you  putting  over?"  he  demanded. 

The  young  man  smiled  reassuringly.  He  had 
begun  to  speak  and,  though  apparently  engaged 
with  the  beer-glass  he  was  polishing,  the  bar 
keeper  listened. 

Down  in  Wall  Street  the  senior  member  of 
Carroll  and  Hastings  also  listened.  He  was 
alone  in  the  most  private  of  all  his  private 
offices,  and  when  interrupted  had  been  engaged 
in  what,  of  all  undertakings,  is  the  most  mo 
mentous.  On  the  desk  before  him  lay  letters 
to  his  kwyer,  to  the  coroner,  to  his  wife;  and 
hidden  by  a  mass  of  papers,  but  within  reach 
of  his  hand,  was  an  automatic  pistol.  The 
promise  it  offered  of  swift  release  had  made  the 
writing  of  the  letters  simple,  had  given  him  a 
feeling  of  complete  detachment,  had  released 

254 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

him,  at  least  in  thought,  from  all  responsibilities. 
And  when  at  his  elbow  the  telephone  coughed 
discreetly,  it  was  as  though  some  one  had  called 
him  from  a  world  from  which  already  he  had 
made  his  exit. 

Mechanically,  through  mere  habit,  he  lifted 
the  receiver. 

The  voice  over  the  telephone  came  in  brisk, 
staccato  sentences. 

"That  letter  I  sent  this  morning?  Forget  it. 
Tear  it  up.  I've  been  thinking  and  I'm  going 
to  take  a  chance.  I've  decided  to  back  you 
boys,  and  I  know  you'll  make  good.  I'm  speak 
ing  from  a  road-house  in  the  Bronx;  going 
straight  from  here  to  the  bank.  So  you  can 
begin  to  draw  against  us  within  an  hour.  And 
— hello! — will  three  millions  see  you  through?" 

From  Wall  Street  there  came  no  answer,  but 
from  the  hands  of  the  barkeeper  a  glass  crashed 
to  the  floor. 

The  young  man  regarded  the  barkeeper  with 
puzzled  eyes. 

"He  doesn't  answer,"  he  exclaimed.  "He 
must  have  hung  up." 

"He  must  have  fainted!"  said  the  bar 
keeper. 

The  white-haired  one  pushed  a  bill  across  the 
counter.  "To  pay  for  breakage,"  he  said,  and 
disappeared  down  Pelham  Parkway. 

255 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

Throughout  the  day,  with  the  bill,  for  evi 
dence,  pasted  against  the  mirror,  the  barkeeper 
told  and  retold  the  wondrous  tale. 

"He  stood  just  where  you're  standing  now," 
he  related,  "blowing  in  million-dollar  bills  like 
you'd  blow  suds  off  a  beer.  If  I'd  knowed  it 
was  him,  I'd  have  hit  him  once  and  hid  him  in 
the  cellar  for  the  reward.  Who'd  I  think  he 
was?  I  thought  he  was  a  wire-tapper,  working 
a  con  game!" 

Mr.  Carroll  had  not  "hung  up,"  but  when  in 
the  Bronx  the  beer-glass  crashed,  in  Wall  Street 
the  receiver  had  slipped  from  the  hand  of  the 
man  who  held  it,  and  the  man  himself  had  fallen 
forward.  His  desk  hit  him  in  the  face  and 
woke  him — woke  him  to  the  wonderful  fact 
that  he  still  lived;  that  at  forty  he  had  been 
born  again;  that  before  him  stretched  many 
more  years  in  which,  as  the  young  man  with 
the  white  hair  had  pointed  out,  he  still  could 
make  good. 

The  afternoon  was  far  advanced  when  the 
staff  of  Carroll  and  Hastings  were  allowed  to 
depart,  and,  even  late  as  was  the  hour,  two  of 
them  were  asked  to  remain.  Into  the  most 
private  of  the  private  offices  Carroll  invited 
Gaskell,  the  head  clerk;  in  the  main  office 
Hastings  had  asked  young  Thorne,  the  bond 
clerk,  to  be  seated. 

256 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

Until  the  senior  partner  has  finished  with 
Gaskell  young  Thorne  must  remain  seated. 

"Gaskell,"  said  Mr.  Carroll,  "if  we  had  lis 
tened  to  you,  if  we'd  run  this  place  as  it  was 
when  father  was  alive,  this  never  would  have 
happened.  It  hasnt  happened,  but  we've  had 
our  lesson.  And  after  this  we're  going  slow  and 
going  straight.  And  we  don't  need  you  to  tell 
us  how  to  do  that.  We  want  you  to  go  away — 
on  a  month's  vacation.  When  I  thought  we 
were  going  under  I  planned  to  send  the  children 
on  a  sea  voyage  with  the  governess — so  they 
wouldn't  see  the  newspapers.  But  now  that  I 
can  look  them  in  the  eye  again,  I  need  them, 
I  can't  let  them  go.  So,  if  you'd  like  to  take 
your  wife  on  an  ocean  trip  to  Nova  Scotia  and 
Quebec,  here  are  the  cabins  I  reserved  for  the 
kids.  They  call  it  the  royal  suite — whatever 
that  is — and  the  trip  lasts  a  month.  The  boat 
sails  to-morrow  morning.  Don't  sleep  too  late 
or  you  may  miss  her." 

The  head  clerk  was  secreting  the  tickets  in 
the  inside  pocket  of  his  waistcoat.  His  fingers 
trembled,  and  when  he  laughed  his  voice  trem 
bled. 

"Miss  the  boat!"  the  head  clerk  exclaimed. 
"If  she  gets  away  from  Millie  and  me  she's  got 
to  start  now.  We'll  go  on  board  to-night!" 

A  half-hour  later  Millie  was  on  her  knees 
257 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

packing  a  trunk,  and  her  husband  was  telephon 
ing  to  the  drug-store  for  a  sponge-bag  and  a 
cure  for  seasickness. 

Owing  to  the  joy  in  her  heart  and  to  the  fact 
that  she  was  on  her  knees,  Millie  was  alter 
nately  weeping  into  the  trunk-tray  and  offering 
up  incoherent  prayers  of  thanksgiving.  Sud 
denly  she  sank  back  upon  the  floor. 

"John!"  she  cried,  "doesn't  it  seem  sinful  to 
sail  away  in  a  'royal  suite'  and  leave  this  beau 
tiful  flat  empty?" 

Over  the  telephone  John  was  having  trouble 
vrith  the  drug  clerk. 

"No!"  he  explained,  "I'm  not  seasick  now. 
The  medicine  I  want  is  to  be  taken  later.  I 
know  I'm  speaking  from  the  Pavonia;  but  the 
Pavonia  isn't  a  ship;  it's  an  apartment-house." 

He  turned  to  Millie.  "We  can't  be  in  two 
places  at  the  same  time,"  he  suggested. 

"But,  think,"  insisted  Millie,  "of  all  the  poor 
people  stifling  to-night  in  this  heat,  trying  to 
sleep  on  the  roofs  and  fire-escapes;  and  our  flat 
so  cool  and  big  and  pretty — and  no  one  in  it." 

John  nodded  his  head  proudly. 

"I  know  it's  big,"  he  said,  "but  it  isn't  big 
enough  to  hold  all  the  people  who  are  sleeping 
to-night  on  the  roofs  and  in  the  parks." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  your  brother — and  Grace," 
said  Millie.  "They've  been  married  only  two 

258 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

weeks  now,  and  they're  in  a  stuffy  hall  bedroom 
and  eating  with  all  the  other  boarders.  Think 
what  our  flat  would  mean  to  them;  to  be  by 
themselves,  with  eight  rooms  and  their  own 
kitchen  and  bath,  and  our  new  refrigerator  and 
the  gramophone !  It  would  be  heaven !  It 
would  be  a  real  honeymoon!" 

Abandoning  the  drug  clerk,  John  lifted  Millie 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  for,  next  to  his  wife, 
nearest  his  heart  was  the  younger  brother. 

The  younger  brother  and  Grace  were  sitting 
on  the  stoop  of  the  boarding-house.  On  the 
upper  steps,  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  were  the 
other  boarders;  so  the  bride  and  bridegroom 
spoke  in  whispers.  The  air  of  the  cross  street 
was  stale  and  stagnant;  from  it  rose  exhalations 
of  rotting  fruit,  the  gases  of  an  open  subway, 
the  smoke  of  passing  taxicabs.  But  between 
the  street  and  the  hall  bedroom,  with  its  odors 
of  a  gas-stove  and  a  kitchen,  the  choice  was 
difficult. 

"We've  got  to  cool  off  somehow,"  the  young 
husband  was  saying,  "or  you  won't  sleep. 
Shall  we  treat  ourselves  to  ice-cream  sodas  or 
a  trip  on  the  Weehawken  ferry-boat?" 

"The  ferry-boat!"  begged  the  girl,  "where 
we  can  get  away  from  all  these  people." 

A  taxicab  with  a  trunk  in  front  whirled  into 
259 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

the  street,  kicked  itself  to  a  stop,  and  the  head 
clerk  and  Millie  spilled  out  upon  the  pavement. 
They  talked  so  fast,  and  the  younger  brother 
and  Grace  talked  so  fast,  that  the  boarders,  al 
though  they  listened  intently,  could  make 
nothing  of  it. 

They  distinguished  only  the  concluding  sen 
tences  : 

"Why  don't  you  drive  down  to  the  wharf 
with  us,"  they  heard  the  elder  brother  ask, 
"and  see  our  royal  suite?" 

But   the    younger   brother    laughed    him   to 


scorn. 

M 


What's  your  royal  suite,"  he  mocked,  "to 
our  royal  palace?" 

An  hour  later,  had  the  boarders  listened  out 
side  the  flat  of  the  head  clerk,  they  would  have 
heard  issuing  from  his  bathroom  the  cooling 
murmur  of  running  water  and  frtfm  his  gramo 
phone  the  jubilant  notes  of  "Alexander's  Rag 
time  Band." 

When  in  his  private  office  Carroll  was  making 
a  present  of  the  royal  suite  to  the  head  clerk, 
in  the  main  office  Hastings,  the  junior  partner, 
was  addressing  "Champ"  Thorne,  the  bond 
clerk.  He  addressed  him  familiarly  and  affec 
tionately  as  "Champ."  This  was  due  partly 
to  the  fact  that  twenty-six  years  before  Thorne 
had  been  christened  Champneys  and  to  the 

260 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

coincidence  that  he  had  captained  the  football 
eleven  of  one  of  the  Big  Three  to  the  champion 
ship. 

"Champ,"  said  Mr.  Hastings,  "last  month, 
when  you  asked  me  to  raise  your  salary,  the 
reason  I  didn't  do  it  was  not  because  you  didn't 
deserve  it,  but  because  I  believed  if  we  gave 
you  a  raise  you'd  immediately  get  married." 

The  shoulders  of  the  ex-football  captain  rose 
aggressively;  he  snorted  with  indignation. 

"And  why  should  I  not  get  married?"  he  de 
manded.  "  You're  a  fine  one  to  talk !  You're 
the  most  offensively  happy  married  man  I  ever 
met." 

"Perhaps  I  know  I  am  happy  better  than 
you  do,"  reproved  the  junior  partner;  "but  I 
know  also  that  it  takes  money  to  support  a 
wife." 

"You  raise  me  to  a  hundred  a  week,"  urged 
Champ,  "and  I'll  make  it  support  a  wife 
whether  it  supports  rne  or  not." 

"A  month  ago,"  continued  Hastings,  "we 
could  have  promised  you  a  hundred,  but  we 
didn't  know  how  long  we  could  pay  it.  We 
didn't  want  you  to  rush  off  and  marry  some 
fine  girl " 

"Some  fine  girl!"  muttered  Mr.  Thorne. 
"The  finest  girl!" 

"The  finer  the  girl,"  Hastings  pointed  out, 
261 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

"the  harder  it  would  have  been  for  you  if  we 
had  failed  and  you  had  lost  your  job." 

The  eyes  of  the  young  man  opened  with  sym 
pathy  and  concern. 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?"  he  murmured. 

Hastings  sighed  happily. 

"It  was"  he  said,  "but  this  morning  the 
Young  Man  of  Wall  Street  did  us  a  good  turn 
— saved  us — saved  our  creditors,  saved  our 
homes,  saved  our  honor.  We're  going  to  start 
fresh  and  pay  our  debts,  and  we  agreed  the 
first  debt  we  paid  would  be  the  small  one  we 
owe  you.  You've  brought  us  more  than  we've 
given,  and  if  you'll  stay  with  us  we're  going  to 
'see'  your  fifty  and  raise  it  a  hundred.  What 
do  you  say?" 

Young  Mr.  Thorne  leaped  to  his  feet.  What 
he  said  was:  "Where'n  hell's  my  hat?" 

But  by  the  time  he  had  found  the  hat  and 
the  door  he  mended  his  manners. 

"I  say,  'Thank  you  a  thousand  times,"'  he 
shouted  over  his  shoulder.  "Excuse  me,  but 
I've  got  to  go.  I've  got  to  break  the  news 
to- 

He  did  not  explain  to  whom  he  was  going  to 
break  the  news;  but  Hastings  must  have 
guessed,  for  again  he  sighed  happily  and  then, 
a  little  hysterically  laughed  aloud.  Several 
months  had  passed  since  he  had  laughed  aloud. 

262 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

In  his  anxiety  to  break  the  news  Champ 
Thorne  almost  broke  his  neck.  In  his  excite 
ment  he  could  not  remember  whether  the  red 
flash  meant  the  elevator  was  going  down  or 
coming  up,  and  sooner  than  wait  to  find  out 
he  started  to  race  down  eighteen  flights  of  stairs 
when  fortunately  the  elevator-door  swung  open. 

"You  get  five  dollars,"  he  announced  to  the 
elevator  man,  "if  you  drop  to  the  street  with 
out  a  stop.  Beat  the  speed  limit !  Act  like  the 
building  is  on  fire  and  you're  trying  to  save  me 
before  the  roof  falls." 

Senator  Barnes  and  his  entire  family,  which 
was  his  daughter  Barbara,  were  at  the  Ritz- 
Carlton.  They  were  in  town  in  August  because 
there  was  a  meeting  of  the  directors  of  the 
Brazil  and  Cuyaba  Rubber  Company,  of  which 
company  Senator  Barnes  was  president.  It  was 
a  secret  meeting.  Those  directors  who  were 
keeping  cool  at  the  edge  of  the  ocean  had  been 
summoned  by  telegraph;  those  who  were  steam 
ing  across  the  ocean,  by  wireless. 

Up  from  the  equator  had  drifted  the  threat 
of  a  scandal,  sickening,  grim,  terrible.  As  yet 
it  burned  beneath  the  surface,  giving  out  only 
an  odor,  but  an  odor  as  rank  as  burning  rubber 
itself.  At  any  moment  it  might  break  into 
flame.  For  the  directors,  was  it  the  better 
wisdom  to  let  the  scandal  smoulder,  and  take  a 

263 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

chance,  or  to  be  the  first  to  give  the  alarm,  the 
first  to  lead  the  way  to  the  horror  and  stamp 
it  out? 

It  was  to  decide  this  that,  in  the  heat  of 
August,  the  directors  and  the  president  had 
foregathered. 

Champ  Thorne  knew  nothing  of  this;  he 
knew  only  that  by  a  miracle  Barbara  Barnes 
was  in  town;  that  at  last  he  was  in  a  position 
to  ask  her  to  marry  him;  that  she  would  cer 
tainly  say  she  would.  That  was  all  he  cared 
to  know. 

A  year  before  he  had  issued  his  declaration  of 
independence.  Before  he  could  marry,  he  told 
her,  he  must  be  able  to  support  a  wife  on  what 
he  earned,  without  her  having  to  accept  money 
from  her  father,  and  until  he  received  "a  min 
imum  wage"  of  five  thousand  dollars  they  must 
wait. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  my  father's 
money?"  Barbara  had  demanded. 

Thorne  had  evaded  the  direct  question. 

"There  is  too  much  of  it,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  object  to  the  way  he  makes  it?"  in 
sisted  Barbara.  "Because  rubber  is  most  use 
ful.  You  put  it  in  golf  balls  and  auto  tires 
and  galoshes.  There  is  nothing  so  perfectly 
respectable  as  galoshes.  And  what  is  there 
*  tainted'  about  a  raincoat?" 

264 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

Thorne  shook  his  head  unhappily. 

"It's  not  the  finished  product  to  which  I 
refer,"  he  stammered;  "it's  the  way  they  get 
the  raw  material." 

"They  get  it  out  of  trees,"  said  Barbara. 
Then  she  exclaimed  with  enlightenment — "Oh !" 
she  cried,  "you  are  thinking  of  the  Congo. 
There  it  is  terrible!  That  is  slavery.  But 
there  are  no  slaves  on  the  Amazon.  The  na 
tives  are  free  and  the  work  is  easy.  They  just 
tap  the  trees  the  way  the  farmers  gather  sugar 
in  Vermont.  Father  has  told  me  about  it 
often." 

Thorne  had  made  no  comment.  He  could 
abuse  a  friend,  if  the  friend  were  among  those 
present,  but  denouncing  any  one  he  disliked  as 
heartily  as  he  disliked  Senator  Barnes  was  a 
public  service  he  preferred  to  leave  to  others. 
And  he  knew  besides  that  if  the  father  she  loved 
and  the  man  she  loved  distrusted  each  other, 
Barbara  would  not  rest  until  she  learned  the 
reason  why. 

One  day,  in  a  newspaper,  Barbara  read  of 
the  Puju  Mayo  atrocities,  of  the  Indian  slaves 
in  the  jungles  and  backwaters  of  the  Amazon, 
who  are  offered  up  as  sacrifices  to  "red  rubber." 
She  carried  the  paper  to  her  father.  What  it 
said,  her  father  told  her,  was  untrue,  and  if  it 
were  true  it  was  the  first  he  had  heard  of  it. 

265 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

Senator  Barnes  loved  the  good  things  of  life, 
but  the  thing  he  loved  most  was  his  daughter; 
the  thing  he  valued  the  highest  was  her  good 
opinion.  So  when  for  the  first  time  she  looked 
at  him  in  doubt,  he  assured  her  he  at  once 
would  order  an  investigation. 

"But,  of  course,"  he  added,  "it  will  be  many 
months  before  our  agents  can  report.  On  the 
Amazon  news  travels  very  slowly/* 

In  the  eyes  of  his  daughter  the  doubt  still 
lingered. 

"I  am  afraid/*  she  said,  "that  that  is  true.'* 

That  was  six  months  before  the  directors  of 
the  Brazil  and  Cuyaba  Rubber  Company  were 
summoned  to  meet  their  president  at  his  rooms 
in  the  Ritz-Carlton.  They  were  due  to  arrive 
in  half  an  hour,  and  while  Senator  Barnes 
awaited  their  coming  Barbara  came  to  him.  In 
her  eyes  was  a  light  that  helped  to  tell  the  great 
news.  It  gave  him  a  sharp,  jealous  pang.  He 
wanted  at  once  to  play  a  part  in  her  happiness, 
to  make  her  grateful  to  him,  not  alone  to  this 
stranger  who  was  taking  her  away.  So  fearful 
was  he  that  she  would  shut  him  out  of  her  life 
that  had  she  asked  for  half  his  kingdom  he 
would  have  parted  with  it. 

"And  besides  giving  my  consent,"  said  the 
rubber  king,  "for  which  no  one  seems  to  have 
asked,  what  can  I  give  my  little  girl  to  make 

266  ' 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

her  remember  her  old  father?  Some  diamonds 
to  put  on  her  head,  or  pearls  to  hang  around 
her  neck,  or  does  she  want  a  vacant  lot  on 
Fifth  Avenue?" 

The  lovely  hands  of  Barbara  rested  upon  his 
shoulders;  her  lovely  face  was  raised  to  his;  her 
lovely  eyes  were  appealing,  and  a  little  fright 
ened. 

"What  would  one  of  those  things  cost?" 
asked  Barbara. 

The  question  was  eminently  practical.  It 
came  within  the  scope  of  the  senator's  under 
standing.  After  all,  he  was  not  to  be  cast  into 
outer  darkness.  His  smile  was  complacent. 
He  answered  airily: 

"Anything  you  like,"  he  said;  "a  million  dol 
lars?" 

The  fingers  closed  upon  his  shoulders.  The 
eyes,  still  frightened,  still  searched  his  in  ap 
peal. 

"Then,  for  my  wedding-present,"  said  the 
girl,  "I  want  you  to  take  that  million  dollars 
and  send  an  expedition  to  the  Amazon.  And  I 
will  choose  the  men.  Men  unafraid;  men  not 
afraid  of  fever  or  sudden  death;  not  afraid  to 
tell  the  truth — even  to  you.  And  all  the  world 
will  know.  And  they — I  mean  you — will  set 
those  people  free!" 

Senator  Barnes  received  the  directors  with 
267 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

an  embarrassment  which  he  concealed  under  a 
manner  of  just  indignation. 

"My  mind  is  made  up,"  he  told  them.  "Ex 
isting  conditions  cannot  continue.  And  to  that 
end,  at  my  own  expense,  I  am  sending  an  expe 
dition  across  South  America.  It  will  investi 
gate,  punish,  and  establish  reforms.  I  suggest, 
on  account  of  this  damned  heat,  we  do  now 
adjourn." 

That  night,  over  on  Long  Island,  Carroll  told 
his  wife  all,  or  nearly  all.  He  did  not  tell  her 
about  the  automatic  pistol.  And  together  on 
tiptoe  they  crept  to  the  nursery  and  looked 
down  at  their  sleeping  children.  When  she 
rose  from  her  knees  the  mother  said:  "But  how 
can  I  thank  him?" 

By  "him"  she  meant  the  Young  Man  of  Wall 
Street. 

"You  never  can  thank  him,"  said  Carroll; 
"that's  the  worst  of  it." 

But  after  a  long  silence  the  mother  said:  "I 
will  send  him  a  photograph  of  the  children. 
Do  you  think  he  will  understand?" 

Down  at  Seabright,  Hastings  and  his  wife 
walked  in  the  sunken  garden.  The  moon  was 
so  bright  that  the  roses  still  held  their  color. 

"I  would  like  to  thank  him,"  said  the  young 
wife.  She  meant  the  Young  Man  of  Wall 
Street.  "  But  for  him  we  would  have  lost  this." 

Her  eyes  caressed  the  garden,  the  fruit-trees, 
268 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

the  house  with  wide,  hospitable  verandas. 
"To-morrow  I  will  send  him  some  of  these 
roses,"  said  the  young  wife.  "Will  he  under 
stand  that  they  mean  our  home?" 

At  a  scandalously  late  hour,  in  a  scandalous 
spirit  of  independence,  Champ  Thorne  and 
Barbara  were  driving  around  Central  Park  in  a 
taxicab. 

"How  strangely  the  Lord  moves,  his  wonders 
to  perform,"  misquoted  Barbara.  "Had  not 
the  Young  Man  of  Wall  Street  saved  Mr. 
Hastings,  Mr.  Hastings  could  not  have  raised 
your  salary;  you  would  not  have  asked  me  to 
marry  you,  and  had  you  not  asked  me  to  marry 
you,  father  would  not  have  given  me  a  wedding- 
present,  and " 

"And,"  said  Champ,  taking  up  the  tale, 
"thousands  of  slaves  would  still  be  buried  in 
the  jungles,  hidden  away  from  their  wives  and 
children  and  the  light  of  the  sun  and  their  fel 
low  men.  They  still  would  be  dying  of  fever, 
starvation,  tortures." 

He  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his  and  held  her 
finger-tips  against  his  lips. 

"And  they  will  never  know,"  he  whispered, 
"when  their  freedom  comes,  that  they  owe  it 
all  to  you." 

On  Hunter's  Island,  Jimmie  Reeder  and  his 
bunkie,  Sam  Sturges,  each  on  his  canvas  cot, 

269 


THE  BOY  SCOUT 

tossed  and  twisted.  The  heat,  the  moonlight, 
and  the  mosquitoes  would  not  let  them  even 
think  of  sleep. 

"That  was  bully,"  said  Jimmie,  "what  you 
did  to-day  about  saving  that  dog.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  you  he'd  ha*  drownded." 

"He  would  not!"  said  Sammy  with  punctilious 
regard  for  the  truth;  "it  wasn't  deep  enough." 

"Well,  the  scout-master  ought  to  know," 
argued  Jimmie;  "he  said  it  was  the  best  'one 
good  turn'  of  the  day !" 

Modestly  Sam  shifted  the  lime-light  so  that 
it  fell  upon  his  bunkie. 

"I'll  bet,"  he  declared  loyally,  "your  'one 
good  turn'  was  a  better  one!" 

Jimmie  yawned,  and  then  laughed  scornfully. 

"Me !"  he  scoffed.  " I  didn't  do  nothing.  I 
sent  my  sister  to  the  movies." 


270 


"SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE" 

MARIE  GESSLER,  known  as  Marie  Chau- 
montel,  Jeanne  d'Avrechy,  the  Countess  d'Au- 
rillac,  was  German.  Her  father,  who  served 
through  the  Franco-Prussian  War,  was  a  Ger 
man  spy.  It  was  from  her  mother  she  learned 
to  speak  French  sufficiently  well  to  satisfy  even 
an  Academician  and,  among  Parisians,  to  pass 
as  one.  Both  her  parents  were  dead.  Before 
they  departed,  knowing  they  could  leave  their 
daughter  nothing  save  their  debts,  they  had 
had  her  trained  as  a  nurse.  But  when  they 
were  gone,  Marie  in  the  Berlin  hospitals  played 
politics,  intrigued,  indiscriminately  misused  the 
appealing,  violet  eyes.  There  was  a  scandal; 
several  scandals.  At  the  age  of  twenty-five  she 
was  dismissed  from  the  Municipal  Hospital,  and 
as  now — save  for  the  violet  eyes — she  was 
without  resources,  as  a  compagnon  de  voyage 
with  a  German  doctor  she  travelled  to  Monte 
Carlo.  There  she  abandoned  the  doctor  for 
Henri  Ravignac,  a  captain  in  the  French  Avia 
tion  Corps,  who,  when  his  leave  ended,  escorted 
her  to  Paris. 

The  duties  of  Captain  Ravignac  kept  him  in 
barracks  near  the  aviation  field,  but  Marie  he 

271 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

established  in  his  apartments  on  the  Boulevard 
Haussmann.  One  day  he  brought  from  the 
barracks  a  roll  of  blue-prints,  and  as  he  was 
locking  them  in  a  drawer,  said:  "The  Germans 
would  pay  through  the  nose  for  those!"  The 
remark  was  indiscreet,  but  then  Marie  had  told 
him  she  was  French,  and  any  one  would  have 
believed  her. 

The  next  morning  the  same  spirit  of  adven 
ture  that  had  exiled  her  from  the  Berlin  hospi 
tals  carried  her  with  the  blue-prints  to  the 
German  embassy.  There,  greatly  shocked,  they 
first  wrote  down  her  name  and  address,  and 
then,  indignant  at  her  proposition,  ordered  her 
out.  But  the  day  following  a  strange  young 
German  who  was  not  at  all  indignant,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  quite  charming,  called  upon  Marie. 
For  the  blue-prints  he  offered  her  a  very  large 
sum,  and  that  same  hour  with  them  and  Marie 
departed  for  Berlin.  Marie  did  not  need  the 
money.  Nor  did  the  argument  that  she  was 
serving  her  country  greatly  impress  her.  It 
was  rather  that  she  loved  intrigue.  And  so 
she  became  a  spy. 

Henri  Ravignac,  the  man  she  had  robbed  of 
the  blue-prints,  was  tried  by  court-martial. 
The  charge  was  treason,  but  Charles  Ravignac, 
his  younger  brother,  promised  to  prove  that 
the  guilty  one  was  the  girl,  and  to  that  end 

272 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

obtained  leave  of  absence  and  spent  much  time 
and  money.  At  the  trial  he  was  able  to  show 
the  record  of  Marie  in  Berlin  and  Monte  Carlo; 
that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  German  secret 
agent;  that  on  the  afternoon  the  prints  disap 
peared  Marie,  with  an  agent  of  the  German 
embassy,  had  left  Paris  for  Berlin.  In  conse 
quence  of  this  the  charge  of  selling  military 
secrets  was  altered  to  one  of  "gross  neglect," 
and  Henri  Ravignac  was  sentenced  to  two 
years  in  the  military  prison  at  Tours.  But 
he  was  of  an  ancient  and  noble  family,  and 
when  they  came  to  take  him  from  his  cell  in 
the  Cherche-Midi,  he  was  dead.  Charles,  his 
brother,  disappeared.  It  was  said  he  also  had 
killed  himself;  that  he  had  been  appointed  a 
military  attache  in  South  America;  that  to 
revenge  his  brother  he  had  entered  the  secret 
service;  but  whatever  became  of  him  no  one 
knew.  All  that  was  certain  was  that,  thanks 
to  the  act  of  Marie  Gessler,  on  the  rolls  of  the 
French  army  the  ancient  and  noble  name  of 
Ravignac  no  longer  appeared. 

In  her  chosen  profession  Marie  Gessler  found 
nothing  discreditable.  Of  herself  her  opinion 
was  not  high,  and  her  opinion  of  men  was 
lower.  For  her  smiles  she  had  watched  several 
sacrifice  honor,  duty,  loyalty;  and  she  held 
them  and  their  kind  in  contempt.  To  lie,  to 

273 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

qajole,  to  rob  men  of  secrets  they  thought  im 
portant,  and  of  secrets  the  importance  of  which 
they  did  not  even  guess,  was  to  her  merely  an 
intricate  and  exciting  game. 

She  played  it  very  well.  So  well  that  in  the 
service  her  advance  was  rapid.  On  important 
missions  she  was  sent  to  Russia,  through  the 
Balkans;  even  to  the  United  States.  There, 
with  credentials  as  an  army  nurse,  she  inspected 
our  military  hospitals  and  unobtrusively  asked 
many  innocent  questions. 

When  she  begged  to  be  allowed  to  work  in 
her  beloved  Paris,  "they"  told  her  when  war 
came  "they"  intended  to  plant  her  inside  that 
city,  and  that,  until  then,  the  less  Paris  knew  of 
her  the  better. 

But  just  before  the  great  war  broke,  to  report 
on  which  way  Italy  might  jump,  she  was  sent 
to  Rome,  and  it  was  not  until  September  she 
was  recalled.  The  telegram  informed  her  that 
her  Aunt  Elizabeth  was  ill,  and  that  at  once 
she  must  return  to  Berlin.  This,  she  learned 
from  the  code  book  wrapped  under  the  cover 
of  her  thermos  bottle,  meant  that  she  was  to 
report  to  the  general  commanding  the  German 
forces  at  Soissons. 

From  Italy  she  passed  through  Switzerland, 
and,  after  leaving  Basle,  on  military  trains  was 
rushed  north  to  Luxemburg,  and  then  west  to 

274 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

Laon.  She  was  accompanied  by  her  companion, 
Bertha,  an  elderly  and  respectable,  even  distin 
guished-looking  female.  In  the  secret  service 
her  number  was  528.  Their  passes  from  the 
war  office  described  them  as  nurses  of  the  Ger 
man  Red  Cross.  Only  the  Intelligence  Depart 
ment  knew  their  real  mission.  With  her,  also, 
as  her  chauffeur,  was  a  young  Italian  soldier  of 
fortune,  Paul  Anfossi.  He  had  served  in  the 
Belgian  Congo,  in  the  French  Foreign  Legion  in 
Algiers,  and  spoke  all  the  European  languages. 
In  Rome,  where  as  a  wireless  operator  he  was 
serving  a  commercial  company,  in  selling  Marie 
copies  of  messages  he  had  memorized,  Marie 
had  found  him  useful,  and  when  war  came  she 
obtained  for  him,  from  the  Wilhelmstrasse,  the 
number  292.  From  Laon,  in  one  of  the  auto 
mobiles  of  the  General  Staff,  the  three  spies 
were  driven  first  to  Soissons,  and  then  along  the 
road  to  Meaux  and  Paris,  to  the  village  of 
Neufchelles.  They  arrived  at  midnight,  and  in 
a  chateau  of  one  of  the  Champagne  princes, 
found  the  colonel  commanding  the  Intelligence 
Bureau.  He  accepted  their  credentials,  de 
stroyed  them,  and  replaced  them  with  a  laissez- 
passer  signed  by  the  mayor  of  Laon.  That  dig 
nitary,  the  colonel  explained,  to  citizens  of  Laon 
fleeing  to  Paris  and  the  coast  had  issued  many 
passes.  But  as  now  between  Laon  and  Paris 

275 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

there  were  three  German  armies,  the  refugees 
had  been  turned  back  and  their  passes  confis 
cated. 

"From  among  them,"  said  the  officer,  "we 
have  selected  one  for  you.  It  is  issued  to  the 
wife  of  Count  d'Aurillac,  a  captain  of  reserves, 
and  her  aunt,  Madame  Benet.  It  asks  for  those 
ladies  and  their  chauffeur,  Briand,  a  safe- 
conduct  through  the  French  military  lines.  If 
it  gets  you  into  Paris  you  will  destroy  it  and 
assume  another  name.  The  Count  d'Aurillac 
is  now  with  his  regiment  in  that  city.  If  he 
learned  of  the  presence  there  of  his  wife,  he 
would  seek  her,  and  that  would  not  be  good  for 
you.  So,  if  you  reach  Paris,  you  will  become  a 
Belgian  refugee.  You  are  high-born  and  rich. 
Your  chateau  has  been  destroyed.  But  you 
have  money.  You  will  give  liberally  to  the 
Red  Cross.  You  will  volunteer  to  nurse  in  the 
hospitals.  With  your  sad  story  of  ill  treatment 
by  us,  with  your  high  birth,  and  your  knowl 
edge  of  nursing,  which  you  acquired,  of  course, 
only  as  an  amateur,  you  should  not  find  it  diffi- 
,cult  to  join  the  Ladies  of  France,  or  the  Ameri 
can  Ambulance.  What  you  learn  from  the 
wounded  English  and  French  officers  and  the 
French  doctors  you  will  send  us  through  the 
usual  channels." 

"When  do  I  start?"  asked  the  woman. 
276 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

"For  a  few  days,"  explained  the  officer,  "you 
remain  in  this  chateau.  You  will  keep  us  in 
formed  of  what  is  going  forward  after  we  with 
draw." 

"Withdraw?"  It  was  more  of  an  exclama 
tion  than  a  question.  Marie  was  too  well 
trained  to  ask  questions. 

"We  are  taking  up  a  new  position,"  said  the 
officer,  "on  the  Aisne." 

The  woman,  incredulous,  stared. 

"And  we  do  not  enter  Paris?" 

"You  do,"  returned  the  officer.  "That  is  all 
that  concerns  you.  We  will  join  you  later — in 
the  spring.  Meanwhile,  for  the  winter  we  in 
trench  ourselves  along  the  Aisne.  In  a  chim 
ney  of  this  chateau  we  have  set  up  a  wireless 
outfit.  We  are  leaving  it  intact.  The  chauffeur 
Briand — who,  you  must  explain  to  the  French, 
you  brought  with  you  from  Laon,  and  who  has 
been  long  in  your  service — will  transmit  what 
ever  you  discover.  We  wish  especially  to  know 
of  any  movement  toward  our  left.  If  they 
attack  in  front  from  Soissons,  we  are  prepared; 
but  of  any  attempt  to  cross  the  Oise  and  take 
us  in  flank  you  must  warn  us." 

The  officer  rose  and  hung  upon  himself  his 
field-glasses,  map-cases,  and  side-arms. 

"We  leave  you  now,"  he  said.  "When  the 
French  arrive  you  will  tell  them  your  reason 

277 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

for  halting  at  this  chateau  was  that  the  owner, 
Monsieur  Iverney,  and  his  family  are  friends  of 
your  husband.  You  found  us  here,  and  we 
detained  you.  And.  so  long  as  you  can  use  the 
wireless,  make  excuses  to  remain.  If  they  offer 
to  send  you  on  to  Paris,  tell  them  your  aunt 
is  too  ill  to  travel." 

"But  they  will  find  the  wireless,"  said  the 
woman.  "They  are  sure  to  use  the  towers  for 
observation,  and  they  will  find  it." 

"In  that  case,"  said  the  officer,  "you  will  sug 
gest  to  them  that  we  fled  in  such  haste  we  had 
no  time  to  dismantle  it.  Of  course,  you  had 
no  knowledge  that  it  existed,  or,  as  a  loyal 
French  woman,  you  would  have  at  once  told 
them."  To  emphasize  his  next  words  the  officer 
pointed  at  her:  "Under  no  circumstances,"  he 
continued,  "must  you  be  suspected.  If  they 
should  take  Briand  in  the  act,  should  they  have 
even  the  least  doubt  concerning  him,  you  must 
repudiate  him  entirely.  If  necessary,  to  keep 
your  own  skirts  clear,  it  would  be  your  duty 
yourself  to  denounce  him  as  a  spy." 

"Your  first  orders,"  said  the  woman,  "were 
to  tell  them  Briand  had  been  long  in  my  service; 
that  I  brought  him  from  my  home  hi  Laon." 

"He  might  be  in  your  service  for  years,"  re 
turned  the  colonel,  "and  you  not  know  he  was 
a  German  agent." 

278 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

"If  to  save  myself  I  inform  upon  him,"  said 
Marie,  "of  course  you  know  you  will  lose 
him." 

The  officer  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "A  wire 
less  operator,"  he  retorted,  "we  can  replace. 
But  for  you,  and  for  the  service  you  are  to 
render  in  Paris,  we  have  no  substitute.  You 
must  not  be  found  out.  You  are  invaluable." 

The  spy  inclined  her  head.  "I  thank  you," 
she  said. 

The  officer  sputtered  indignantly. 

"It  is  not  a  compliment,"  he  exclaimed;  "it 
is  an  order.  You  must  not  be  found  out!" 

Withdrawn  some  two  hundred  yards  from 
the  Paris  road,  the  chateau  stood  upon  a  wooded 
hill.  Except  directly  in  front,  trees  of  great 
height  surrounded  it.  The  tips  of  their  branches 
brushed  the  windows;  interlacing,  they  con 
tinued  until  they  overhung  the  wall  of  the 
estate.  Where  it  ran  with  the  road  the  wall 
gave  way  to  a  lofty  gate  and  iron  fence,  through 
which  those  passing  could  see  a  stretch  of  noble 
turf,  as  wide  as  a  polo-field,  borders  of  flowers 
disappearing  under  the  shadows  of  the  trees; 
and  the  chateau  itself,  with  its  terrace,  its  many 
windows,  its  high-pitched,  sloping  roof,  broken 
by  towers  and  turrets. 

Through  the  remainder  of  the  night  there 
came  from  the  road  to  those  in  the  chateau  the 

279 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

roar  and  rumbling  of  the  army  in  retreat.  It 
moved  without  panic,  disorder,  or  haste,  but 
unceasingly.  Not  for  an  instant  was  there  a 
breathing-spell.  And  when  the  sun  rose,  the 
three  spies — the  two  women  and  the  chauffeur 
— who  in  the  great  chateau  were  now  alone, 
could  see  as  well  as  hear  the  gray  column  of 
steel  rolling  past  below  them. 

The  spies  knew  that  the  gray  column  had 
reached  Claye,  had  stood  within  fifteen  miles  of 
Paris,  and  then  upon  Paris  had  turned  its  back. 
They  knew  also  that  the  reverberations  from 
the  direction  of  Meaux,  that  each  moment  grew 
more  loud  and  savage,  were  the  French  "sev 
enty-fives"  whipping  the  gray  column  forward. 
Of  what  they  felt  the  Germans  did  not  speak. 
In  silence  they  looked  at  each  other,  and  in  the 
eyes  of  Marie  was  bitterness  and  resolve. 

Toward  noon  Marie  met  Anfossi  in  the  great 
drawing-room  that  stretched  the  length  of  the 
terrace  and  from  the  windows  of  which,  through 
the  park  gates,  they  could  see  the  Paris  road. 

"This,  that  is  passing  now,"  said  Marie,  "is 
the  last  of  our  rear-guard.  Go  to  your  tower,'* 
she  ordered,  "and  send  word  that  except  for 
stragglers  and  the  wounded  our  column  has  just 
passed  through  Neufchelles,  and  that  any  mo 
ment  we  expect  the  French."  She  raised  her 
hand  impressively.  "From  now,"  she  warned, 

280 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

"we  speak  French,  we  think  French,  we  are 
French!" 

Anfossi,  or  Briand,  as  now  he  called  himself, 
addressed  her  in  that  language.  His  tone  was 
bitter.  "Pardon  my  lese-majesty,"  he  said, 
"but  this  chief  of  your  Intelligence  Department 
is  a  dummer  Menscb.  He  is  throwing  away  a 
valuable  life." 

Marie  exclaimed  in  dismay.  She  placed  her 
hand  upon  his  arm,  and  the  violet  eyes  filled 
with  concern. 

"Not  yours !"  she  protested. 

"Absolutely!"  returned  the  Italian.  "I  can 
send  nothing  by  this  knapsack  wireless  that 
they  will  not  learn  from  others;  from  airmen, 
Uhlans,  the  peasants  in  the  fields.  And  cer 
tainly  I  will  be  caught.  Dead  I  am  dead,  but 
alive  and  in  Paris  the  opportunities  are  unend 
ing.  From  the  French  Legion  Etranger  I  have 
my  honorable  discharge.  I  am  an  expert  wire 
less  operator  and  in  their  Signal  Corps  I  can 
easily  find  a  place.  Imagine  me,  then,  on  the 
Eiffel  Tower.  From  the  air  I  snatch  news  from 
all  of  France,  from  the  Channel,  the  North  Sea. 
You  and  I  could  work  together,  as  in  Rome. 
But  here,  between  the  lines,  with  a  pass  from  a 
village  sous-prefet,  it  is  ridiculous.  I  am  not 
afraid  to  die.  But  to  die  because  some  one  else 
is  stupid,  that  is  hard." 

281 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

Marie  clasped  his  hand  in  both  of  hers. 

"You  must  not  speak  of  death,"  she  cried; 
"you  know  I  must  carry  out  my  orders,  that  I 
must  force  you  to  take  this  risk.  And  you 
know  that  thought  of  harm  to  you  tortures 


me!' 


Quickly  the  young  man  disengaged  his  hand. 
The  woman  exclaimed  with  anger. 

"Why  do  you  doubt  me?"  she  cried. 

Briand  protested  vehemently. 

"I  do  not  doubt  you." 

"My  affection,  then?"  In  a  whisper  that 
carried  with  it  the  feeling  of  a  caress  Marie 
added  softly:  "My  love?" 

The  young  man  protested  miserably.     "You 

make  it  very  hard,   mademoiselle,"   he  cried. 

'  You  are  my  superior  officer,  I  am  your  servant. 

Who  am  I  that  I  should  share  with  others " 

The  woman  interrupted  eagerly. 

"Ah,  you  are  jealous!"  she  cried.  "Is  that 
why  you  are  so  cruel?  But  when  I  tell  you  I 
love  you,  and  only  you,  can  you  not  Jeel  it  is  the 
truth?" 

The  young  man  frowned  unhappily. 

"My  duty,  mademoiselle!"  he  stammered. 

With  an  exclamation  of  anger  Marie  left  him. 
As  the  door  slammed  behind  her,  the  young 
man  drew  a  deep  breath.  On  his  face  was  the 
expression  of  ineffable  relief. 

282 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

In  the  hall  Marie  met  her  elderly  companion, 
Bertha,  now  her  aunt,  Madame  Benet. 

"I  heard  you  quarrelling,"  Bertha  protested. 
"It  is  most  indiscreet.  It  is  not  in  the  part  of 
the  Countess  d'Aurillac  that  she  makes  love  to 
her  chauffeur." 

Marie  laughed  noiselessly  and  drew  her  far 
ther  down  the  hall.  "He  is  imbecile!"  she  ex 
claimed.  "He  will  kill  me  with  his  solemn  face 
and  his  conceit.  I  make  love  to  him — yes — 
that  he  may  work  the  more  willingly.  But  he 
will  have  none  of  it.  He  is  jealous  of  the 
others." 

Madame  Benet  frowned. 

"He  resents  the  others,"  she  corrected.  "I 
do  not  blame  him.  He  is  a  gentleman!" 

"And  the  others,"  demanded  Marie;  "were 
they  not  of  the  most  noble  families  of 
Rome?" 

"I  am  old  and  I  am  ugly,"  said  Bertha,  "but 
to  me  Anfossi  is  always  as  considerate  as  he  is 
to  you  who  are  so  beautiful." 

"An  Italian  gentleman,"  returned  Marie, 
"does  not  serve  in  Belgian  Congo  unless  it  is 
the  choice  of  that  or  the  marble  quarries." 

"I  do  not  know  what  his  past  may  be," 
sighed  Madame  Benet,  "nor  do  I  ask.  He  is 
only  a  number,  as  you  and  I  are  only  numbers. 
And  I  beg  you  to  let  us  work  in  harmony.  At 


"SOMEWHERE  IN   FRANCE" 

such  a  time  your  love-affairs  threaten  our  safety. 
You  must  wait/* 

Marie  laughed  insolently.  "With  the  Du 
Barry,"  she  protested,  "  I  can  boast  that  I  wait 
for  no  man." 

"No,"  replied  the  older  woman;  "you  pursue 
him!" 

Marie  would  have  answered  sharply,  but  on 
the  instant  her  interest  was  diverted.  For  one 
week,  by  day  and  night,  she  had  lived  in  a 
world  peopled  only  by  German  soldiers.  Beside 
her  in  the  railroad  carriage,  on  the  station  plat 
forms,  at  the  windows  of  the  trains  that  passed 
the  one  in  which  she  rode,  at  the  grade  cross 
ings,  on  the  bridges,  in  the  roads  that  paralleled 
the  tracks,  choking  the  streets  of  the  villages 
and  spread  over  the  fields  of  grain,  she  had 
seen  only  the  gray-green  uniforms.  Even  her 
professional  eye  no  longer  distinguished  regi 
ment  from  regiment,  dragoon  from  grenadier, 
Uhlan  from  Hussar  or  Landsturm.  Stripes,  in 
signia,  numerals,  badges  of  rank,  had  lost  their 
meaning.  Those  who  wore  them  no  longer 
were  individuals.  They  were  not  even  human. 
During  the  three  last  days  the  automobile,  like 
a  motor-bo*  t  fighting  the  tide,  had  crept  through 
a  gray-greei  river  of  men,  stained,  as  though 
from  the  banks,  by  mud  and  yellow  clay.  And 
for  hours,  while  the  car  was  blocked,  and  in 

284 


"SOMEWHERE  IN   FRANCE" 

fury  the  engine  raced  and  purred,  the  gray- 
green  river  had  rolled  past  her,  slowly  but  as 
inevitably  as  lava  down  the  slope  of  a  volcano, 
bearing  on  its  surface  faces  with  staring  eyes, 
thousands  and  thousands  of  eyes,  some  fierce 
and  bloodshot,  others  filled  with  weariness, 
homesickness,  pain.  At  night  she  still  saw 
them:  the  white  faces  under  the  sweat  and  dust, 
the  eyes  dumb,  inarticulate,  asking  the  answer. 
She  had  been  suffocated  by  German  soldiers, 
by  the  mass  of  them,  engulfed  and  smothered; 
she  had  stifled  in  a  land  inhabited  only  by  gray- 
green  ghosts. 

And  suddenly,  as  though  a  miracle  had  been 
wrought,  she  saw  upon  the  lawn,  riding  toward 
her,  a  man  in  scarlet,  blue,  and  silver.  One 
man  riding  alone. 

Approaching  with  confidence,  but  alert;  his 
reins  fallen,  his  hands  nursing  his  carbine,  his 
eyes  searched  the  shadows  of  the  trees,  the 
empty  windows,  even  the  sun-swept  sky.  His 
was  the  new  face  at  the  door,  the  new  step  on 
the  floor.  And  the  spy  knew  had  she  beheld  an 
army  corps  it  would  have  been  no  more  signifi 
cant,  no  more  menacing,  than  the  solitary 
chasseur  a  cbeval  scouting  in  advance  of  the 
enemy. 

"We  are  saved!"  exclaimed  Marie,  with 
irony.  "Go  quickly,"  she  commanded,  "to  the 

285 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

bedroom  on  the  second  floor  that  opens  upon 
the  staircase,  so  that  you  can  see  all  who  pass. 
You  are  too  ill  to  travel.  They  must  find  you 
in  bed/' 

"And  you?"  said  Bertha. 

"I,"  cried  Marie  rapturously,  "hasten  to 
welcome  our  preserver !" 

The  preserver  was  a  peasant  lad.  Under  the 
white  dust  his  cheeks  were  burned  a  brown-red, 
his  eyes,  honest  and  blue,  through  much  staring 
at  the  skies  and  at  horizon  lines,  were  puckered 
and  encircled  with  tiny  wrinkles.  Responsi 
bility  had  made  him  older  than  his  years,  and 
in  speech  brief.  With  the  beautiful  lady  who 
with  tears  of  joy  ran  to  greet  him,  and  who  in 
an  ecstasy  of  happiness  pressed  her  cheek  against 
the  nose  of  his  horse,  he  was  unimpressed.  He 
returned  to  her  her  papers  and  gravely  echoed 
her  answers  to  his  questions.  "This  chateau," 
he  repeated,  "was  occupied  by  their  General 
Staff;  they  have  left  no  wounded  here;  you  saw 
the  last  of  them  pass  a  half-hour  since."  He 
gathered  up  his  reins. 

Marie  shrieked  in  alarm.  "You  will  not 
leave  us?"  she  cried. 

For  the  first  time  the  young  man  permitted 
himself  to  smile.  "Others  arrive  soon,"  he 
said. 

He  touched  his  shako,  wheeled  his  horse  in 
286 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

the  direction  from  which  he  had  come,  and  a 
minute  later  Marie  heard  the  hoofs  echoing 
through  the  empty  village. 

When  they  came,  the  others  were  more  sym 
pathetic.  Even  in  times  of  war  a  beautiful 
woman  is  still  a  beautiful  woman.  And  the 
staff  officers  who  moved  into  the  quarters  so 
lately  occupied  by  the  enemy  found  in  the 
presence  of  the  Countess  d'Aurillac  nothing  to 
distress  them.  In  the  absence  of  her  dear 
friend,  Madame  Iverney,  the  chatelaine  of  the 
chateau,  she  acted  as  their  hostess.  Her  chauf 
feur  showed  the  company  cooks  the  way  to  the 
kitchen,  the  larder,  and  the  charcoal-box.  She, 
herself,  in  the  hands  of  General  Andre  placed 
the  keys  of  the  famous  wine-cellar,  and  to  the 
surgeon,  that  the  wounded  might  be  freshly 
bandaged,  intrusted  those  of  the  linen-closet. 
After  the  indignities  she  had  suffered  while 
"detained"  by  les  Boches,  her  delight  and  relief 
at  again  finding  herself  under  the  protection  of 
her  own  people  would  have  touched  a  heart  of 
stone.  And  the  hearts  of  the  staff  were  not  of 
stone.  It  was  with  regret  they  gave  the  count 
ess  permission  to  continue  on  her  way.  At  this 
she  exclaimed  with  gratitude.  She  assured 
them,  were  her  aunt  able  to  travel,  she  would 
immediately  depart. 

"In  Paris  she  will  be  more  comfortable  than 
287 


"SOMEWHERE  IN   FRANCE" 

here,"  said  the  kind  surgeon.  He  was  a  reserv 
ist,  and  in  times  of  peace  a  fashionable  physician 
and  as  much  at  his  ease  in  a  boudoir  as  in  a 
field  hospital.  "Perhaps  if  I  saw  Madame 
Benet?" 

At  the  suggestion  the  countess  was  overjoyed. 
But  they  found  Madame  Benet  in  a  state  of 
complete  collapse.  The  conduct  of  the  Ger 
mans  had  brought  about  a  nervous  break 
down. 

"Though  the  bridges  are  destroyed  at 
Meaux,"  urged  the  surgeon,  "even  with  a  de 
tour,  you  can  be  in  Paris  in  four  hours.  I  think 
it  is  worth  the  effort." 

But  the  mere  thought  of  the  journey  threw 
Madame  Benet  into  hysterics.  She  asked  only 
to  rest,  she  begged  for  an  opiate  to  make  her 
sleep.  She  begged  also  that  they  would  leave 
the  door  open,  so  that  when  she  dreamed  she 
was  still  in  the  hands  of  the  Germans,  and  woke 
in  terror,  the  sound  of  the  dear  French  voices 
and  the  sight  of  the  beloved  French  uniforms 
might  reassure  her.  She  played  her  part  well. 
Concerning  her  Marie  felt  not  the  least  anxiety. 
But  toward  Briand,  the  chauffeur,  the  new 
arrivals  were  less  easily  satisfied. 

The  general  sent  his  adjutant  for  the  countess. 
When  the  adjutant  had  closed  the  door  General 
Andre  began  abruptly: 

288 


"SOMEWHERE  IN   FRANCE" 

"The  chauffeur  Briand,"  he  asked,  "you 
know  him;  you  can  vouch  for  him?" 

"But,  certainly!"  protested  Marie.  "He  is 
an  Italian." 

As  though  with  sudden  enlightenment,  Marie 
laughed.  It  was  as  if  now  in  the  suspicion  of 
the  officer  she  saw  a  certain  reasonableness. 
"Briand  was  so  long  in  the  Foreign  Legion  in 
Algiers,"  she  explained,  "where  my  husband 
found  him,  that  we  have  come  to  think  of  him 
as  French.  As  much  French  as  ourselves,  I 
assure  you." 

The  general  and  his  adjutant  were  regarding 
each  other  questioningly. 

"Perhaps  I  should  tell  the  countess,"  began 
the  general,  "that  we  have  learned " 

The  signal  from  the  adjutant  was  so  slight, 
so  swift,  that  Marie  barely  intercepted  it. 

The  lips  of  the  general  shut  together  like  the 
leaves  of  a  book.  To  show  the  interview  was 
at  an  end,  he  reached  for  a  pen. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  said. 

"Of  course,"  prompted  the  adjutant,  "Ma 
dame  d'Aurillac  understands  the  man  must  not 
know  we  inquired  concerning  him." 

General  Andre  frowned  at  Marie. 

"Certainly  not!"  he  commanded.  "The 
honest  fellow  must  not  know  that  even  for  a 
moment  he  was  doubted." 

289 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

Marie  raised  the  violet  eyes  reprovingly. 

"  I  trust,"  she  said  with  reproach,  "  I  too  well 
understand  the  feelings  of  a  French  soldier  to 
let  him  know  his  loyalty  is  questioned." 

With  a  murmur  of  appreciation  the  officers 
bowed  and  with  a  gesture  of  gracious  pardon 
Marie  left  them. 

Outside  in  the  hall,  with  none  but  orderlies 
to  observe,  like  a  cloak  the  graciousness  fell 
from  her.  She  was  drawn  two  ways.  In  her 
work  Anfossi  was  valuable.  But  Anfossi  sus 
pected  was  less  than  of  no  value;  he  became  a 
menace,  a  death-warrant. 

General  Andre  had  said,  "We  have  learned — " 
and  the  adjutant  had  halted  him.  What  had 
he  learned?  To  know  that,  Marie  would  have 
given  much.  Still,  one  important  fact  com 
forted  her.  Anfossi  alone  was  suspected.  Had 
there  been  concerning  herself  the  slightest 
doubt,  they  certainly  would  not  have  allowed 
her  to  guess  her  companion  was  under  surveil 
lance;  they  would  not  have  asked  one  who  was 
herself  suspected  to  vouch  for  the  innocence  of 
a  fellow  conspirator.  Marie  found  the  course 
to  follow  difficult.  With  Anfossi  under  suspi 
cion  his  usefulness  was  for  the  moment  at  an 
end;  and  to  accept  the  chance  offered  her  to 
continue  on  to  Paris  seemed  most  wise.  On 
the  other  hand,  if,  concerning  Anfossi,  she  had 

290 


"SOMEWHERE   IN  FRANCE" 

succeeded  in  allaying  their  doubts,  the  results 
most  to  be  desired  could  be  attained  only  by 
remaining  where  they  were. 

Their  position  inside  the  lines  was  of  the 
greatest  strategic  value.  The  rooms  of  the 
servants  were  under  the  roof,  and  that  Briand 
should  sleep  in  one  of  them  was  natural.  That 
to  reach  or  leave  his  room  he  should  constantly 
be  ascending  or  descending  the  stairs  also  was 
natural.  The  field-wireless  outfit,  or,  as  he  had 
disdainfully  described  it,  the  " knapsack'*  wire 
less,  was  situated  not  in  the  bedroom  he  had 
selected  for  himself,  but  in  one  adjoining.  At 
other  times  this  was  occupied  by  the  maid  of 
Madame  Iverney.  To  summon  her  maid  Ma 
dame  Iverney,  from  her  apartment  on  the  sec 
ond  floor,  had  but  to  press  a  button.  And  it 
was  in  the  apartment  of  Madame  Iverney,  and 
on  the  bed  of  that  lady,  that  Madame  Benet 
now  reclined.  When  through  the  open  door 
she  saw  an  officer  or  soldier  mount  the  stairs, 
she  pressed  the  button  that  rang  a  bell  in  the 
room  of  the  maid.  In  this  way,  long  before 
whoever  was  ascending  the  stairs  could  reach 
the  top  floor,  warning  of  his  approach  came  to 
Anfossi.  It  gave  him  time  to  replace  the  dust- 
board  over  the  fireplace  in  which  the  wireless 
was  concealed  and  to  escape  into  his  own  bed 
room.  The  arrangement  was  ideal.  And  al- 

291 


"SOMEWHERE  IN   FRANCE" 

ready  information  picked  up  in  the  halls  below 
by  Marie  had  been  conveyed  to  Anfossi  to  relay 
in  a  French  cipher  to  the  German  General  Staff 
at  Rheims. 

Marie  made  an  alert  and  charming  hostess. 
To  all  who  saw  her  it  was  evident  that  her 
mind  was  intent  only  upon  the  comfort  of  her 
guests.  Throughout  the  day  many  came  and 
went,  but  each  she  made  welcome;  to  each  as 
he  departed  she  called  "bonne  chance."  Effi 
cient,  tireless,  tactful,  she  was  everywhere:  in 
the  dining-room,  in  the  kitchen,  in  the  bed 
rooms,  for  the  wounded  finding  mattresses  to 
spread  in  the  gorgeous  salons  of  the  Champagne 
prince;  for  the  soldier-chauffeurs  carrying  wine 
into  the  courtyard,  where  the  automobiles 
panted  and  growled,  and  the  arriving  and  de 
parting  shrieked  for  right  of  way.  At  all  times 
an  alluring  person,  now  the  one  woman  in  a 
tumult  of  men,  her  smart  frock  covered  by  an 
apron,  her  head  and  arms  bare,  undismayed 
by  the  sight  of  the  wounded  or  by  the  distant 
rumble  of  the  guns,  the  Countess  d'Aurillac 
was  an  inspiring  and  beautiful  picture.  The 
eyes  of  the  officers,  young  and  old,  informed 
her  of  that  fact,  one  of  which  already  she  was 
well  aware.  By  the  morning  of  the  next  day 
she  was  accepted  as  the  owner  of  the  chateau. 
And  though  continually  she  reminded  the  staff 

292 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

she  was  present  only  as  the  friend  of  her  school 
mate,  Madame  Iverney,  they  deferred  to  her 
as  to  a  hostess.  Many  of  them  she  already 
saluted  by  name,  and  to  those  who  with  mes 
sages  were  constantly  motoring  to  and  from 
the  front  at  Soissons  she  was  particularly  kind. 
Overnight  the  legend  of  her  charm,  of  her  de 
votion  to  the  soldiers  of  all  ranks,  had  spread 
from  Soissons  to  Meaux,  and  from  Meaux  to 
Paris.  It  was  noon  of  that  day  when  from  the 
window  of  the  second  story  Marie  saw  an 
armored  automobile  sweep  into  the  courtyard. 
It  was  driven  by  an  officer,  young  and  appal 
lingly  good-looking,  and,  as  was  obvious  by 
the  way  he  spun  his  car,  one  who  held  in  con 
tempt  both  the  law  of  gravity  and  death. 
That  he  was  some  one  of  importance  seemed 
evident.  Before  he  could  alight  the  adjutant 
had  raced  to  meet  him.  With  her  eye  for  detail 
Marie  observed  that  the  young  officer,  instead 
of  imparting  information,  received  it.  He  must, 
she  guessed,  have  just  arrived  from  Paris,  and 
his  brother  officer  either  was  telling  him  the 
news  or  giving  him  his  orders.  Whichever  it 
might  be,  in  what  was  told  him  the  new  arrival 
was  greatly  interested.  One  instant  in  indig 
nation  his  gauntleted  fist  beat  upon  the  steering- 
wheel,  the  next  he  smiled  with  pleasure.  To 
interpret  this  pantomime  was  difficult;  and,  tk« 

403 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE'' 

better  to  inform  herself,  Marie  descended  the 
stairs. 

As  she  reached  the  lower  hall  the  two  officers 
entered.  To  the  spy  the  man  last  to  arrive  was 
always  the  one  of  greatest  importance;  and 
Marie  assured  herself  that  through  her  friend, 
the  adjutant,  to  meet  with  this  one  would  prove 
easy. 

But  the  chauffeur-commander  of  the  armored 
car  made  it  most  difficult.  At  sight  of  Marie, 
much  to  her  alarm,  as  though  greeting  a  dear 
friend,  he  snatched  his  kepi  from  his  head  and 
sprang  toward  her. 

"The  major,"  he  cried,  "told  me  you  were 
here,  that  you  are  Madame  d'Aurillac."  His 
eyes  spoke  his  admiration.  In  delight  he 
beamed  upon  her.  "I  might  have  known  it!" 
he  murmured.  With  the  confidence  of  one 
who  is  sure  he  brings  good  news,  he  laughed 
happily.  "And  I,"  he  cried,  "am  'Pierrot'!" 

Who  the  devil  "Pierrot"  might  be  the  spy 
could  not  guess.  She  knew  only  that  she 
wished  by  a  German  shell  "Pierrot"  and  his 
car  had  been  blown  to  tiny  fragments.  Was  it 
a  trap,  she  asked  herself,  or  was  the  handsome 
youth  really  some  one  the  Countess  d'Aurillac 
should  know.  But,  as  from  his  introducing 
himself  it  was  evident  he  could  not  know  that 
lady  very  well,  Marie  took  courage  and  smiled. 

294 


With  her  eye  for  detail  Marie  observed  that  the 
young  officer,  instead  of  imparting  informa 
tion,  received  it. 


"SOMEWHERE  IN   FRANCE" 

"Which  'Pierrot'?"  she  parried. 

"Pierre  Thierry!"  cried  the  youth. 

To  the  relief  of  Marie  he  turned  upon  the 
adjutant  and  to  him  explained  who  Pierre 
Thierry  might  be. 

"Paul  d'Aurillac,"  he  said,  "is  my  dearest 
friend.  When  he  married  this  charming  lady  I 
was  stationed  in  Algiers,  and  but  for  the  war  I 
might  never  have  met  her." 

To  Marie,  with  his  hand  on  his  heart  in  a 
most  charming  manner,  he  bowed.  His  ad 
miration  he  made  no  effort  to  conceal. 

"And  so,"  he  said,  "I  know  why  there  is 
war!" 

The  adjutant  smiled  indulgently,  and  de 
parted  on  his  duties,  leaving  them  alone.  The 
handsome  eyes  of  Captain  Thierry  were  raised 
to  the  violet  eyes  of  Marie.  They  appraised 
her  boldly  and  as  boldly  expressed  their  ap 
proval. 

In  burlesque  the  young  man  exclaimed  indig 
nantly:  "Paul  deceived  me!"  he  cried.  "He 
told  me  he  had  married  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  Laon.  He  has  married  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  France!" 

To  Marie  this  was  not  impertinence,  but  gal 
lantry. 

This  was  a  language  she  understood,  and  this 
was  the  type  of  man,  because  he  was  the  least 

295 


"SOMEWHERE  IN   FRANCE" 

difficult  to  manage,  she  held  most  in  con 
tempt. 

"But  about  you  Paul  did  not  deceive  me," 
she  retorted.  In  apparent  confusion  her  eyes 
refused  to  meet  his.  "He  told  me  'Pierrot* 
was  a  most  dangerous  man!" 

She  continued  hurriedly.  With  wifely  solici 
tude  she  asked  concerning  Paul.  She  explained 
that  for  a  week  she  had  been  a  prisoner  in  the 
chateau,  and,  since  the  mobilization,  of  her 
husband  save  that  he  was  with  his  regiment  in 
Paris  she  had  heard  nothing.  Captain  Thierry 
was  able  to  give  her  later  news.  Only  the  day 
previous,  on  the  boulevards,  he  had  met  Count 
d'Aurillac.  He  was  at  the  Grand  Hotel,  and 
as  Thierry  was  at  once  motoring  back  to  Paris 
he  would  give  Paul  news  of  their  meeting.  He 
hoped  he  might  tell  him  that  soon  his  wife  also 
would  be  in  Paris.  Marie  explained  that  only 
the  illness  of  her  aunt  prevented  her  from  that 
same  day  joining  her  husband.  Her  manner 
became  serious. 

"And  what  other  news  have  you?"  she  asked. 
"Here  on  the  firing-line  we  know  less  of  what 
is  going  forward  than  you  in  Paris." 

So  Pierre  Thierry  told  her  all  he  knew.  They 
were  preparing  despatches  he  was  at  once  to 
carry  back  to  the  General  Staff,  and,  for  the 
moment,  his  time  was  his  own.  How  could  he 

296 


"SOMEWHERE  IN  FRANCE" 

better  employ  it  than  in  talking  of  the  war  with 
a  patriotic  and  charming  French  woman? 

In  consequence  Marie  acquired  a  mass  of 
facts,  gossip,  and  guesses.  From  these  she  men 
tally  selected  such  information  as,  to  her  em 
ployers  across  the  Aisne,  would  be  of  vital 
interest. 

And  to  rid  herself  of  Thierry  and  on  the 
fourth  floor  seek  Anfossi  was  now  her  only  wish. 
But,  in  attempting  this,  by  the  return  of  the 
adjutant  she  was  delayed.  To  Thierry  the 
adjutant  gave  a  sealed  envelope. 

"Thirty-one,  Boulevard  des  Invalides,"  he 
said.  With  a  smile  he  turned  to  Marie.  "And 
you  will  accompany  him!'* 

"I!"  exclaimed  Marie.  She  was  sick  with 
sudden  terror. 

But  the  tolerant  smile  of  the  adjutant  reas 
sured  her. 

"The  count,  your  husband,"  he  explained, 
"has  learned  of  your  detention  here  by  the 
enemy,  and  he  has  besieged  the  General  Staff 
to  have  you  convoyed  safely  to  Paris."  The 
adjutant  glanced  at  a  field  telegram  he  held 
open  in  his  hand.  "He  asks,"  he  continued, 
"that  you  be  permitted  to  return  in  the  car  of 
his  friend,  Captain  Thierry,  and  that  on  arriv 
ing  you  join  him  at  the  Grand  Hotel." 

Thierry  exclaimed  with  delight. 
297 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

"But  how  charming!"  he  cried.  "To-night 
you  must  both  dine  with  me  at  La  Rue's."  He 
saluted  his  superior  officer.  "Some  petrol,  sir," 
he  said.  "And  I  am  ready."  To  Marie  he 
added:  "The  car  will  be  at  the  steps  in  five 
minutes."  He  turned  and  left  them. 

The  thoughts  of  Marie,  snatching  at  an  ex 
cuse  for  delay,  raced  madly.  The  danger  of 
meeting  the  Count  d'Aurillac,  her  supposed 
husband,  did  not  alarm  her.  The  Grand  Hotel 
has  many  exits,  and,  even  before  they  reached 
it,  for  leaving  the  car  she  could  invent  an  excuse 
that  the  gallant  Thierry  would  not  suspect. 
But  what  now  concerned  her  was  how,  before 
she  was  whisked  away  to  Paris,  she  could  con 
vey  to  Anfossi  the  information  she  had  gathered 
from  Thierry.  First,  of  a  woman  overcome 
with  delight  at  being  reunited  with  her  husband 
she  gave  an  excellent  imitation;  then  she  ex 
claimed  in  distress:  "But  my  aunt,  Madame 
Benet!"  she  cried.  "I  cannot  leave  her!" 

"The  Sisters  of  St.  Francis,"  said  the  adju 
tant,  "arrive  within  an  hour  to  nurse  the 
wounded.  They  will  care  also  for  your  aunt." 

Marie  concealed  her  chagrin.  "Then  I  will 
at  once  prepare  to  go,"  she  said. 

The  adjutant  handed  her  a  slip  of  paper. 
"Your  laissez-passer  to  Paris,"  he  said.  "You 
leave  in  five  minutes,  madame!" 

298 


"SOMEWHERE   IN  FRANCE" 

As  temporary  hostess  of  the  chateau  Marie 
was  free  to  visit  any  part  of  it,  and  as  she 
passed  her  door  a  signal  from  Madame  Benet 
told  her  that  Anfossi  was  on  the  fourth  floor, 
that  he  was  at  work,  and  that  the  coast  was 
clear.  Softly,  in  the  felt  slippers  she  always 
wore,  as  she  explained,  in  order  not  to  disturb 
the  wounded,  she  mounted  the  staircase.  In 
her  hand  she  carried  the  housekeeper's  keys, 
and  as  an  excuse  it  was  her  plan  to  return  with 
an  armful  of  linen  for  the  arriving  Sisters.  But 
Marie  never  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs. 
When  her  eyes  rose  to  the  level  of  the  fourth 
floor  she  came  to  a  sudden  halt.  At  what  she 
saw  terror  gripped  her,  bound  her  hand  and 
foot,  and  turned  her  blood  to  ice. 

At  her  post  for  an  instant  Madame  Benet 
had  slept,  and  an  officer  of  the  staff,  led  by 
curiosity,  chance,  or  suspicion,  had,  unobserved 
and  unannounced,  mounted  to  the  fourth  floor. 
When  Marie  saw  him  he  was  in  front  of  the 
room  that  held  the  wireless.  His  back  was 
toward  her,  but  she  saw  that  he  was  holding  the 
door  to  the  room  ajar,  that  his  eye  was  pressed 
to  the  opening,  and  that  through  it  he  had 
pushed  the  muzzle  of  his  automatic.  What 
would  be  the  fate  of  Anfossi  Marie  knew.  Nor 
did  she  for  an  instant  consider  it.  Her  thoughts 
were  of  her  own  safety;  that  she  might  live. 

299 


"SOMEWHERE    IN    FRANCE" 

Not  that  she  might  still  serve  the  Wilhelm- 
strasse,  the  Kaiser,  or  the  Fatherland;  but  that 
she  might  live.  In  a  moment  Anfossi  would  be 
denounced,  the  chateau  would  ring  with  the 
alarm,  and,  though  she  knew  Anfossi  would 
not  betray  her,  by  others  she  might  be  accused. 
To  avert  suspicion  from  herself  she  saw  only 
one  way  open.  She  must  be  the  first  to  de 
nounce  Anfossi. 

Like  a  deer,  she  leaped  down  the  marble  stairs 
and,  in  a  panic  she  had  no  need  to  assume,  burst 
into  the  presence  of  the  staff. 

"Gentlemen!"  she  gasped,  "my  servant  —  the 
chauffeur  —  Briand  is  a  spy!  There  is  a  Ger 
man  wireless  in  the  chateau.  He  is  using  it! 
I  have  seen  him."  With  exclamations,  the  offi 
cers  rose  to  their  feet.  General  Andre  alone 
remained  seated.  General  Andre  was  a  veteran 
of  many  Colonial  wars:  Cochin-China,  Algiers, 
Morocco.  The  great  war,  when  it  came,  found 
him  on  duty  in  the  Intelligence  Department. 
His  aquiline  nose,  bristling  white  eyebrows,  and 
flashing,  restless  eyes  gave  him  his  nickname  of 


In  amazement,  the  flashing  eyes  were  now 
turned  upon  Marie.  He  glared  at  her  as  though 
he  thought  she  suddenly  had  flown  mad. 

"A  German  wireless!"  he  protested.  "It  is 
impossible!" 

300 


"SOMEWHERE    IN    FRANCE" 

"I  was  on  the  fourth  floor,"  panted  Marie, 
"collecting  linen  for  the  Sisters.  In  the  room 
next  to  the  linen-closet  I  heard  a  strange  buzzing 
sound.  I  opened  the  door  softly.  I  saw  Briand 
with  his  back  to  me  seated  by  an  instrument. 
There  were  receivers  clamped  to  his  ears !  My 
God !  The  disgrace !  The  disgrace  to  my  hus 
band  and  to  me,  who  vouched  for  him  to  you  !" 
Apparently  in  an  agony  of  remorse,  the  ringers 
of  the  woman  laced  and  interlaced.  "  I  cannot 
forgive  myself!" 

The  officers  moved  toward  the  door,  but  Gen 
eral  Andre  halted  them.  Still  in  a  tone  of  in 
credulity,  he  demanded:  "When  did  you  see 
this?" 

Marie  knew  the  question  was  coming,  knew 
she  must  explain  how  she  saw  Briand,  and  yet 
did  not  see  the  staff  officer  who,  with  his  pris 
oner,  might  now  at  any  instant  appear.  She 
must  make  it  plain  she  had  discovered  the  spy 
and  left  the  upper  part  of  the  house  before  the 
officer  had  visited  it.  When  that  was  she  could 
not  know,  but  the  chance  was  that  he  had  pre 
ceded  her  by  only  a  few  minutes. 

"When  did  you  see  this?"  repeated  the  gen 
eral. 

"But  just  now,"  cried  Marie;  "not  ten  min 
utes  since." 

"Why  did  you  not  come  to  me  at  once?" 


"SOMEWHERE    IN    FRANCE" 

"I  was  afraid,"  replied  Marie.  "If  I  moved 
I  was  afraid  he  might  hear  me,  and  he,  knowing 
I  would  expose  him,  would  kill  me — and  so 
escape  you!"  There  was  an  eager  whisper  of 
approval.  For  silence,  General  Andre  slapped 
his  hand  upon  the  table. 

"Then,"  continued  Marie,  "I  understood 
with  the  receivers  on  his  ears  he  could  not  have 
heard  me  open  the  door,  nor  could  he  hear  me 
leave,  and  I  ran  to  my  aunt.  The  thought  that 
we  had  harbored  such  an  animal  sickened  me, 
and  I  was  weak  enough  to  feel  faint.  But  only 
for  an  instant.  Then  I  came  here."  She  moved 
swiftly  to  the  door.  "Let  me  show  you  the 
room,"  she  begged;  "y°u  can  take  him  in  the 
act."  Her  eyes,  wild  with  the  excitement  of 
the  chase,  swept  the  circle.  "Will  you  come?" 
she  begged. 

Unconscious  of  the  crisis  he  interrupted,  the 
orderly  on  duty  opened  the  door. 

"Captain  Thierry's  compliments,"  he  recited 
mechanically,  "and  is  he  to  delay  longer  for 
Madame  d'Aurillac?" 

With  a  sharp  gesture  General  Andre  waved 
Marie  toward  the  door.  Without  rising,  he 
inclined  his  head.  "Adieu,  madame,"  he  said. 
"We  act  at  once  upon  your  information.  I 
thank  you!" 

As  she  crossed  from  the  hall  to  the  terrace, 
302 


"SOMEWHERE   IN    FRANCE" 

the  ears  of  the  spy  were  assaulted  by  a  sudden 
tumult  of  voices.  They  were  raised  in  threats 
and  curses.  Looking  back,  she  saw  Anfossi 
descending  the  stairs.  His  hands  were  held 
above  his  head;  behind  him,  with  his  automatic, 
the  staff  officer  she  had  surprised  on  the  fourth 
floor  was  driving  him  forward.  Above  the 
clinched  fists  of  the  soldiers  that  ran  to  meet 
him,  the  eyes  of  Anfossi  were  turned  toward 
her.  His  face  was  expressionless.  His  eyes 
neither  accused  nor  reproached.  And  with  the 
joy  of  one  who  has  looked  upon  and  then  escaped 
the  guillotine,  Marie  ran  down  the  steps  to 
the  waiting  automobile.  With  a  pretty  cry  of 
pleasure  she  leaped  into  the  seat  beside  Thierry. 
Gayly  she  threw  out  her  arms.  "To  Paris!" 
she  commanded.  The  handsome  eyes  of 
Thierry,  eloquent  with  admiration,  looked  back 
into  hers.  He  stooped,  threw  in  the  clutch, 
and  the  great  gray  car,  with  the  machine  gun 
and  its  crew  of  privates  guarding  the  rear, 
plunged  through  the  park. 

"To  Paris !"  echoed  Thierry. 

In  the  order  in  which  Marie  had  last  seen 
them,  Anfossi  and  the  staff  officer  entered  the 
room  of  General  Andre,  and  upon  the  soldiers 
in  the  hall  the  door  was  shut.  The  face  of  the 
staff  officer  was  grave,  but  his  voice  could  not 
conceal  his  elation. 

303 


"SOMEWHERE    IN    FRANCE" 

"My  general,"  he  reported,  "I  found  this 
man  in  the  act  of  giving  information  to  the 
enemy.  There  is  a  wireless " 

General  Andre  rose  slowly.  He  looked 
neither  at  the  officer  nor  at  his  prisoner.  With 
frowning  eyes  he  stared  down  at  the  maps  upon 
his  table. 

"I  know,"  he  interrupted.  "Some  one  has 
already  told  me."  He  paused,  and  then,  as 
though  recalling  his  manners,  but  still  without 
raising  his  eyes,  he  added:  "You  have  done 
well,  sir." 

In  silence  the  officers  of  the  staff  stood  mo 
tionless.  With  surprise  they  noted  that,  as 
yet,  neither  in  anger  nor  curiosity  had  General 
Andre  glanced  at  the  prisoner.  But  of  the 
presence  of  the  general  the  spy  was  most  acutely 
conscious.  He  stood  erect,  his  arms  still  raised, 
but  his  body  strained  forward,  and  on  the 
averted  eyes  of  the  general  his  own  were  fixed. 

In  an  agony  of  supplication  they  asked  a 
question. 

At  last,  as  though  against  his  wish,  toward 
the  spy  the  general  turned  his  head,  and  their 
eyes  met.  And  still  General  Andre  was  silent. 
Then  the  arms  of  the  spy,  like  those  of  a  runner 
who  has  finished  his  race  and  breasts  the  tape 
exhausted,  fell  tc  his  sides.  In  a  voice  low  and 
vibrant  he  spoke  his  question. 

304 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

"  It  has  been  so  long,  sir,"  he  pleaded.  "  May 
I  not  come  home?" 

General  Andre  turned  to  the  astonished  group 
surrounding  him.  His  voice  was  hushed  like 
that  of  one  who  speaks  across  an  open  grave. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  began,  "my  children,"  he 
added.  "A  German  spy,  a  woman,  involved 
in  a  scandal  your  brother  in  arms,  Henri  Ravi- 
gnac.  His  honor,  he  thought,  was  concerned, 
and  without  honor  he  refused  to  live.  To  prove 
him  guiltless  his  younger  brother  Charles  asked 
leave  to  seek  out  the  woman  who  had  betrayed 
Henri,  and  by  us  was  detailed  on  secret  service. 
He  gave  up  home,  family,  friends.  He  lived  in 
exile,  in  poverty,  at  all  times  in  danger  of  a 
swift  and  ignoble  death.  In  the  War  Office  we 
know  him  as  one  who  has  given  to  his  country 
services  she  cannot  hope  to  reward.  For  she 
cannot  return  to  him  the  years  he  has  lost. 
She  cannot  return  to  him  his  brother.  But  she 
can  and  will  clear  the  name  of  Henri  Ravignac, 
and  upon  his  brother  Charles  bestow  promotion 
and  honors." 

The  general  turned  and  embraced  the  spy. 
"My  children,"  he  said,  "welcome  your  brother. 
He  has  come  home." 

Before  the  car  had  reached  the  fortifications, 
Marie  Gessler  had  arranged  her  plan  of  escape. 
She  had  departed  from  the  chateau  without 

305 


"SOMEWHERE    IN    FRANCE'1 

even  a  hand-bag,  and  she  would  say  that  before 
the  shops  closed  she  must  make  purchases. 

Le  Printemps  lay  in  their  way,  and  she  asked 
that,  when  they  reached  it,  for  a  moment  she 
might  alight.  Captain  Thierry  readily  gave 
permission. 

From  the  department  store  it  would  be  most 
easy  to  disappear,  and  in  anticipation  Marie 
smiled  covertly.  Nor  was  the  picture  of  Cap 
tain  Thierry  impatiently  waiting  outside  un- 
amusing. 

But  before  Le  Printemps  was  approached,  the 
car  turned  sharply  down  a  narrow  street.  On 
one  side,  along  its  entire  length,  ran  a  high  gray 
wall,  grim  and  forbidding.  In  it  was  a  green 
gate  studded  with  iron  bolts.  Before  this  the 
automobile  drew  suddenly  to  a  halt.  The  crew 
of  the  armored  car  tumbled  off  the  rear  seat, 
and  one  of  them  beat  upon  the  green  gate. 
Marie  felt  a  hand  of  ice  clutch  at  her  throat. 
But  she  controlled  herself. 

"And  what  is  this?"  she  cried  gayly. 

At  her  side  Captain  Thierry  was  smiling 
down  at  her,  but  his  smile  was  hateful. 

"It  is  the  prison  of  St.  Lazare,"  he  said.  " It 
is  not  becoming,"  he  added  sternly,  "that  the 
name  of  the  Countess  d'Aurillac  should  be 
made  common  as  the  Paris  road!" 

Fighting  for  her  life,  Marie  thrust  herself 
306 


"SOMEWHERE   IN   FRANCE" 

against  him;  her  arm  that  throughout  the  jour 
ney  had  rested  on  the  back  of  the  driving-seat 
caressed  his  shoulders;  her  lips  and  the  violet 
eyes  were  close  to  his. 

"Why  should  you  care?"  she  whispered 
fiercely.  "You  have  me!  Let  the  Count 
d'Aurillac  look  after  the  honor  of  his  wife  him 
self." 

The  charming  Thierry  laughed  at  her  mock 
ingly. 

"He  means  to,"  he  said.  "I  am  the  Count 
d'Aurillac!" 


307 


THE  DESERTER 

IN  Salonika,  the  American  consul,  the  Stand 
ard  Oil  man,  and  the  war  correspondents 
formed  the  American  colony.  The -correspon 
dents  were  waiting  to  go  to  the  front.  Inciden 
tally,  as  we  waited,  the  front  was  coming  rapidly 
toward  us.  There  was  "Uncle"  Jim,  the  vet 
eran  of  many  wars,  and  of  all  the  correspondents, 
in  experience  the  oldest  and  in  spirit  the  young 
est,  and  there  was  the  Kid,  and  the  Artist. 
The  Kid  jeered  at  us,  and  proudly  described 
himself  as  the  only  Boy  Reporter  who  jumped 
from  a  City  Hall  assignment  to  cover  a  Euro 
pean  War.  "  I  don't  know  strategy,"  he  would 
boast;  "neither  does  the  Man  at  Home.  He 
wants  'human  interest*  stuff,  and  I  give  him 
what  he  wants.  I  write  exclusively  for  the 
subway  guard  and  the  farmers  in  the  wheat 
belt.-  When  you  fellows  write  about  the  'Situ 
ation,'  they  don't  understand  it.  Neither  do 
you.  Neither  does  Venizelos  or  the  King.  I 
don't  understand  it  myself.  So,  I  write  my 
people  heart-to-heart  talks  about  refugees  and 
wounded,  and  what  kind  of  ploughs  the  Servian 
peasants  use,  and  that  St.  Paul  wrote  his  letters 

308 


THE  DESERTER 

to  the  Thessalonians  from  the  same  hotel  where 
I  write  mine;  and  I  tell  'em  to  pronounce  Salon 
ika  'eeka,'  and  not  put  the  accent  on  the  'on.' 
This  morning  at  the  refugee  camp  I  found  all 
the  little  Servians  of  the  Frothingham  unit  in 
American  Boy  Scout  uniforms.  That's  my 
meat.  That's  'home  week'  stuff.  You  fellows 
write  for  the  editorial  page;  and  nobody  reads  it. 
I  write  for  the  man  that  turns  first  to  Mutt  and 
Jeff,  and  then  looks  to  see  where  they  are  run 
ning  the  new  Charlie  Chaplin  release.  When 
that  man  has  to  choose  between  'our  military 
correspondent'  and  the  City  Hall  Reporter,  he 
chooses  me!" 

The  third  man  was  John,  "Our  Special  Art 
ist."  John  could  write  a  news  story,  too,  but 
it  was  the  cartoons  that  had  made  him  famous. 
They  were  not  comic  page,  but  front  page  car 
toons,  and  before  making  up  their  minds  what 
they  thought,  people  waited  to  see  what  their 
Artist  thought.  So,  it  was  fortunate  his 
thoughts  were  as  brave  and  clean  as  they  were 
clever.  He  was  the  original  Little  Brother  to 
the  Poor.  He  was  always  giving  away  money. 
When  we  caught  him,  he  would  prevaricate. 
He  would  say  the  man  was  a  college  chum, 
that  he  had  borrowed  the  money  from  him, 
and  that  this  was  the  first  chance  he  had  had  to 
pay  it  back.  The  Kid  suggested  it  was  strange 

309 


THE  DESERTER 

that  so  many  of  his  college  chums  should  at 
the  same  moment  turn  up,  dead  broke,  in  Salo 
nika,  and  that  half  of  them  should  be  women. 

John  smiled  disarmingly.  "It  was  a  large 
college,"  he  explained,  "and  coeducational." 
There  were  other  Americans;  Red  Cross  doc 
tors  and  nurses  just  escaped  through  the  snow 
from  the  Bulgars,  and  hyphenated  Americans 
who  said  they  had  taken  out  their  first  papers. 
They  thought  hyphenated  citizens  were  so  pop 
ular  with  us,  that  we  would  pay  their  passage 
to  New  York.  In  Salonika  they  were  tran 
sients.  They  had  no  local  standing.  They  had 
no  local  lying-down  place,  either,  or  place  to 
eat,  or  to  wash,  although  they  did  not  look  as 
though  that  worried  them,  or  place  to  change 
their  clothes.  Or  clothes  to  change.  It  was 
because  we  had  clothes  to  change,  and  a  hotel 
bedroom,  instead  of  a  bench  in  a  cafe,  that  we 
were  ranked  as  residents  and  from  the  Greek 
police  held  a  "permission  to  sojourn."  Our 
American  colony  was  a  very  close  corporation. 
We  were  only  six  Americans  against  300,000 
British,  French,  Greek,  and  Servian  soldiers, 
and  120,000  civilian  Turks,  Spanish  Jews,  Ar 
menians,  Persians,  Egyptians,  Albanians,  and 
Arabs,  and  some  twenty  more  other  races  that 
are  not  listed.  We  had  arrived  in  Salonika 
before  the  rush,  and  at  the  Hotel  Hermes  on 


THE  DESERTER 

the  water-front  had  secured  a  vast  room.  The 
edge  of  the  stone  quay  was  not  forty  feet  from 
us,  the  only  landing  steps  directly  opposite  our 
balcony.  Everybody  who  arrived  on  the  Greek 
passenger  boats  from  Naples  or  the  Piraeus,  or 
who  had  shore  leave  from  a  man-of-war,  trans 
port,  or  hospital  ship,  was  raked  by  our  cameras. 
There  were  four  windows — one  for  each  of  us 
and  his  work  table.  It  was  not  easy  to  work. 
What  was  the  use?  The  pictures  and  stories 
outside  the  windows  fascinated  us,  but  when  we 
sketched  them  or  wrote  about  them,  they  only 
proved  us  inadequate.  All  day  long  the  pin 
naces,  cutters,  gigs,  steam  launches  shoved  and 
bumped  against  the  stone  steps,  marines  came 
ashore  for  the  mail,  stewards  for  fruit  and  fish, 
Red  Cross  nurses  to  shop,  tiny  midshipmen  to 
visit  the  movies,  and  the  sailors  and  officers  of 
the  Russian,  French,  British,  Italian,  and  Greek 
war-ships  to  stretch  their  legs  in  the  park  of 
the  Tour  Blanche,  or  to  cramp  them  under  a 
cafe  table.  Sometimes  the  ambulances  blocked 
the  quay  and  the  wounded  and  frost-bitten  were 
lifted  into  the  motor-boats,  and  sometimes  a 
squad  of  marines  lined  the  landing  stage,  and 
as  a  coffin  under  a  French  or  English  flag  was 
borne  up  the  stone  steps  stood  at  salute.  So 
crowded  was  the  harbor  that  the  oars  of  the 
boatmen  interlocked. 

3" 


THE  DESERTER 

Close  to  the  stone  quay,  stretched  along  the 
three-mile  circle,  were  the  fishing  smacks,  be 
yond  them,  so  near  that  the  anchor  chains 
fouled,  were  the  passenger  ships  with  gigantic 
Greek  flags  painted  on  their  sides,  and  beyond 
them  transports  from  Marseilles,  Malta,  and 
Suvla  Bay,  black  colliers,  white  hospital  ships, 
burning  green  electric  lights,  red-bellied  tramps 
and  freighters,  and,  hemming  them  in,  the  grim, 
mouse-colored  destroyers,  submarines,  cruisers, 
dreadnaughts.  At  times,  like  a  wall,  the  cold 
fog  rose  between  us  and  the  harbor,  and  again 
the  curtain  would  suddenly  be  ripped  asunder, 
and  the  sun  would  flash  on  the  brass  work  of 
the  fleet,  on  the  white  wings  of  the  aeroplanes, 
on  the  snow-draped  shoulders  of  Mount  Olym 
pus.  We  often  speculated  as  to  how  in  the 
early  days  the  gods  and  goddesses,  dressed  as 
they  were,  or  as  they  were  not,  survived  the 
snows  of  Mount  Olympus.  Or  was  it  only 
their  resort  for  the  summer? 

It  got  about  that  we  had  a  vast  room  to  our 
selves,  where  one  might  obtain  a  drink,  or  a 
sofa  for  the  night,  or  even  money  to  cable  for 
money.  So,  we  had  many  strange  visitors, 
some  half  starved,  half  frozen,  with  terrible 
tales  of  the  Albanian  trail,  of  the  Austrian  pris 
oners  fallen  by  the  wayside,  of  the  mountain 
passes  heaped  with  dead,  of  the  doctors  and 

312 


THE  DESERTER 

nurses  wading  waist-high  in  snow-drifts  and  for 
food  killing  the  ponies.  Some  of  our  visitors 
wanted  to  get  their  names  in  the  American  pa 
pers  so  that  the  folks  at  home  would  know 
they  were  still  alive,  others  wanted  us  to  keep 
their  names  out  of  the  papers,  hoping  the  police 
would  think  them  dead;  another,  convinced  it 
was  of  pressing  news  value,  desired  us  to  adver 
tise  the  fact  that  he  had  invented  a  poisonous 
gas  for  use  in  the  trenches.  With  difficulty 
we  prevented  him  from  casting  it  adrift  in  our 
room.  Or,  he  had  for  sale  a  second-hand 
motor-cycle,  or  he  would  accept  a  position  as 
barkeeper,  or  for  five  francs  would  sell  a  state 
secret  that,  once  made  public,  in  a  month  would 
end  the  war.  It  seemed  cheap  at  the  price. 

Each  of  us  had  his  "scouts"  to  bring  him  the 
bazaar  rumor,  the  Turkish  bath  rumor,  the  cafe 
rumor.  Some  of  our  scouts  journeyed  as  far 
afield  as  Monastir  and  Doiran,  returning  to 
drip  snow  on  the  floor,  and  to  tell  us  tales,  one- 
half  of  which  we  refused  to  believe,  and  the 
other  half  the  censor  refused  to  pass.  With 
each  other's  visitors  it  was  etiquette  not  to 
interfere.  It  would  have  been  like  tapping  a 
private  wire.  When  we  found  John  sketching 
a  giant  stranger  in  a  cap  and  coat  of  wolf  skin 
we  did  not  seek  to  know  if  he  were  an  Albanian 
brigand,  or  a  Servian  prince  incognito,  and  when 

313 


THE  DESERTER 

a  dark  Levantine  sat  close  to  the  Kid,  whisper 
ing,  and  the  Kid  banged  on  his  typewriter,  we 
did  not  listen. 

So,  when  I  came  in  one  afternoon  and  found 
a  strange  American  youth  writing  at  John's 
table,  and  no  one  introduced  us,  I  took  it  for 
granted  he  had  sold  the  Artist  an  "exclusive" 
story,  and  asked  no  questions.  But  I  could 
not  help  hearing  what  they  said.  Even  though 
I  tried  to  drown  their  voices  by  beating  on  the 
Kid's  typewriter.  I  was  taking  my  third  les 
son,  and  I  had  printed,  "I  Amm  5w  writjng 
This,  5wjth  my  own  lilly  w?ite  handS,"  when 
I  heard  the  Kid  saying: 

"You  can  beat  the  game  this  way.  Let  John 
buy  you  a  ticket  to  the  Piraeus.  If  you  go 
from  one  Greek  port  to  another  you  don't  need 
a  vise.  But,  if  you  book  from  here  to  Italy, 
you  must  get  a  permit  from  the  Italian  consul, 
and  our  consul,  and  the  police.  The  plot  is  to 
get  out  of  the  war  zone,  isn't  it?  Well,  then, 
my  dope  is  to  get  out  quick,  and  map  the  rest 
of  your  trip  when  you're  safe  in  Athens." 

It  was  no  business  of  mine,  but  I  had  to 
look  up.  The  stranger  was  now  pacing  the 
floor.  I  noticed  that  while  his  face  was  almost 
black  with  tan,  his  upper  lip  was  quite  white. 
I  noticed  also  that  he  had  his  hands  in  the 
pockets  of  one  of  John's  blue  serge  suits,  and 


THE  DESERTER 

that  the  pink  silk  shirt  he  wore  was  one  that 
once  had  belonged  to  the  Kid.  Except  for  the 
pink  shirt,  in  the  appearance  of  the  young  man 
there  was  nothing  unusual.  He  was  of  a  fa 
miliar  type.  He  looked  like  a  young  business 
man  from  our  Middle  West,  matter-of-fact  and 
unimaginative,  but  capable  and  self-reliant. 
If  he  had  had  a  fountain  pen  in  his  upper  waist 
coat  pocket,  I  would  have  guessed  he  was  an 
insurance  agent,  or  the  publicity  man  for  a 
new  automobile.  John  picked  up  his  hat,  and 
said,  "That's  good  advice.  Give  me  your 
steamer  ticket,  Fred,  and  I'll  have  them  change 
it."  He  went  out;  but  he  did  not  ask  Fred  to 
go  with  him. 

Uncle  Jim  rose,  and  murmured  something 
about  the  Cafe  Roma,  and  tea.  But  neither 
did  he  invite  Fred  to  go  with  him.  Instead,  he 
told  him  to  make  himself  at  home,  and  if  he 
wanted  anything  the  waiter  would  bring  it  from 
the  cafe  downstairs.  Then  the  Kid,  as  though 
he  also  was  uncomfortable  at  being  left  alone 
with  us,  hurried  to  the  door.  "Going  to  get 
you  a  suit-case,"  he  explained.  "Back  in  five 


minutes." 


The  stranger  made  no  answer.  Probably  he 
did  not  hear  him.  Not  a  hundred  feet  from  our 
windows  three  Greek  steamers  were  huddled 
together,  and  the  eyes  of  the  American  were 

315 


THE  DESERTER 

fixed  on  them.  The  one  for  which  John  had 
gone  to  buy  him  a  new  ticket  lay  nearest.  She 
was  to  sail  in  two  hours.  Impatiently,  in  short 
quick  steps,  the  stranger  paced  the  length  of 
the  room,  but  when  he  turned  and  so  could  see 
the  harbor,  he  walked  slowly,  devouring  it 
with  his  eyes.  For  some  time,  in  silence,  he 
repeated  this  manoeuvre;  and  then  the  com 
plaints  of  the  typewriter  disturbed  him.  He 
halted  and  observed  my  struggles.  Under  his 
scornful  eye,  in  my  embarrassment  I  frequently 
hit  the  right  letter.  "You  a  newspaper  man, 
too?"  he  asked.  I  boasted  I  was,  but  begged 
not  to  be  judged  by  my  typewriting. 

"I  got  some  great  stories  to  write  when  I 
get  back  to  God's  country/'  he  announced.  "  I 
was  a  reporter  for  two  years  in  Kansas  City 
before  the  war,  and  now  I'm  going  back  to  lec 
ture  and  write.  I  got  enough  material  to  keep 
me  at  work  for  five  years.  AH  kinds  of  stuff — 
specials,  fiction  stories,  personal  experiences, 
maybe  a  novel." 

I  regarded  him  with  envy.  For  the  corre 
spondents  in  the  greatest  of  all  wars  the  pickings 
had  been  meagre.  "You  are  to  be  congratu 
lated,"  I  said.  He  brushed  aside  my  con 
gratulations.  "For  what?"  he  demanded.  "I 
didn't  go  after  the  stories;  they  came  to  me. 
The  things  I  saw  I  had  to  see.  Couldn't  get 

316 


THE  DESERTER 

away  from  them.  I've  been  with  the  British, 
serving  in  the  R.  A.  M.  C.  Been  hospital 
steward,  stretcher  bearer,  ambulance  driver. 
I've  been  sixteen  months  at  the  front,  and  all 
the  time  on  the  firing-line.  I  was  in  the  retreat 
from  Mons,  with  French  on  the  Marne,  at 
Ypres,  all  through  the  winter  fighting  along  the 
Canal,  on  the  Gallipoli  Peninsula,  and,  just 
lately,  in  Servia.  I've  seen  more  of  this  war 
than  any  soldier.  Because,  sometimes,  they 
give  the  soldier  a  rest;  they  never  give  the  medi 
cal  corps  a  rest.  The  only  rest  I  got  was  when 
I  was  wounded." 

He  seemed  no  worse  for  his  wounds,  so  again 
I  tendered  congratulations.  This  time  he  ac 
cepted  them.  The  recollection  of  the  things 
he  had  seen,  things  incredible,  terrible,  unique 
in  human  experience,  had  stirred  him.  He 
talked  on,  not  boastfully,  but  in  a  tone,  rather, 
of  awe  and  disbelief,  as  though  assuring  him 
self  that  it  was  really  he  to  whom  such  things 
had  happened. 

"  I  don't  believe  there's  any  kind  of  fighting 
I  haven't  seen,"  he  declared;  "hand-to-hand 
fighting  with  bayonets,  grenades,  gun  butts. 
I've  seen  'em  on  their  knees  in  the  mud  choking 
each  other,  beating  each  other  with  their  bare 
fists.  I've  seen  every  kind  of  airship,  bomb, 
shell,  poison  gas,  every  kind  of  wound.  Seen 

317 


THE  DESERTER 

whole  villages  turned  into  a  brickyard  in  twenty 
minutes;  in  Servia  seen  bodies  of  women  frozen 
to  death,  bodies  of  babies  starved  to  death,  seen 
men  in  Belgium  swinging  from  trees;  along  the 
Yzer  for  three  months  I  saw  the  bodies  of  men 
I'd  known  sticking  out  of  the  mud,  or  hung 
up  on  the  barb  wire,  with  the  crows  picking 
them. 

"I've  seen  some  of  the  nerviest  stunts  that 
ever  were  pulled  off  in  history.  I've  seen  real 
heroes.  Time  and  time  again  I've  seen  a  man 
throw  away  his  life  for  his  officer,  or  for  a  chap 
he  didn't  know,  just  as  though  it  was  a  ciga 
rette  butt.  I've  seen  the  women  nurses  of  our 
corps  steer  a  car  into  a  village  and  yank  out  a 
wounded  man  while  shells  were  breaking  under 
the  wheels  and  the  houses  were  pitching  into 
the  streets."  He  stopped  and  laughed  con 
sciously. 

"Understand,"  he  warned  me,  "I'm  not  talk 
ing  about  myself,  only  of  things  I've  seen.  The 
things  I'm  going  to  put  in  my  book.  It  ought 
to  be  a  pretty  good  book — what?" 

My  envy  had  been  washed  clean  in  admira 
tion. 

"It  will  make  a  wonderful  book,"  I  agreed. 
"Are  you  going  to  syndicate  it  first?" 

Young  Mr.  Hamlin  frowned  importantly. 

"I  was  thinking,"  he  said,  "of  asking  John 


THE  DESERTER 

for  letters  to  the  magazine  editors.  So,  they'll 
know  I'm  not  faking,  that  Pve  really  been 
through  it  all.  Letters  from  John  would  help 
a  lot."  Then  he  asked  anxiously:  "They  would, 
wouldn't  they?" 

I  reassured  him.  Remembering  the  Kid's 
gibes  at  John  and  his  numerous  dependents,  I 
said:  "You  another  college  chum  of  John's?" 
The  young  man  answered  my  question  quite 
seriously.  "No,"  he  said;  "John  graduated 
before  I  entered;  but  we  belong  to  the  same 
fraternity.  It  was  the  luckiest  chance  in  the 
world  my  finding  him  here.  There  was  a 
month-old  copy  of  the  Balkan  News  blowing 
around  camp,  and  his  name  was  in  the  list  of 
arrivals.  The  moment  I  found  he  was  in  Sa 
lonika,  I  asked  for  twelve  hours  leave,  and 
came  down  in  an  ambulance.  I  made  straight 
for  John;  gave  him  the  grip,  and  put  it  up  to 
him  to  help  me." 

"I  don't  understand,"  I  said.  "I  thought 
you  were  sailing  on  the  Adriaticus?" 

The  young  man  was  again  pacing  the  floor. 
He  halted  and  faced  the  harbor. 

"You  bet  I'm  sailing  on  the  Adriaticus,"  he 
said.  He  looked  out  at  that  vessel,  at  the  Blue 
Peter  flying  from  her  foremast,  and  grinned. 
"In  just  two  hours!" 

It  was  stupid  of  me,  but  I  still  was  unenlight- 


THE  DESERTER 

ened.  "But  your  twelve  hours'  leave?"  I 
asked. 

The  young  man  laughed.  "They  can  take 
my  twelve  hours'  leave,"  he  said  deliberately, 
"and  feed  it  to  the  chickens.  I'm  beating  it." 

"What  d'you  mean,  you're  beating  it?" 

"What  do  you  suppose  I  mean?"  he  de 
manded.  "What  do  you  suppose  I'm  doing 
out  of  uniform,  what  do  you  suppose  I'm  lying 
low  in  the  room  for?  So's  I  won't  catch  cold?" 

"If  you're  leaving  the  army  without  a  dis 
charge,  and  without  permission,"  I  said,  "I 
suppose  you  know  it's  desertion." 

Mr.  Hamlin  laughed  easily.  "It's  not  my 
army,"  he  said.  "I'm  an  American." 

"It's  your  desertion,"  I  suggested. 

The  door  opened  and  closed  noiselessly,  and 
Billy,  entering,  placed  a  new  travelling  bag  on 
the  floor.  He  must  have  heard  my  last  words, 
for  he  looked  inquiringly  at  each  of  us.  But 
he  did  not  speak  and,  walking  to  the  window, 
stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  staring 
out  at  the  harbor.  His  presence  seemed  to 
encourage  the  young  man.  "Who  knows  I'm 
deserting?"  he  demanded.  "No  one's  ever 
seen  me  in  Salonika  before,  and  in  these  'cits' 
I  can  get  on  board  all  right.  And  then  they 
can't  touch  me.  What  do  the  folks  at  home 
care  bow  I  left  the  British  army?  They'll  be  so 

320 


THE  DESERTER 

darned  glad  to  get  me  back  alive  that  they 
won't  ask  if  I  walked  out  or  was  kicked  out.  I 
should  worry!" 

"It's  none  of  my  business,"  I  began,  but  I 
was  interrupted.  In  his  restless  pacings  the 
young  man  turned  quickly. 

"As  you  say,"  he  remarked  icily,  "it  is  none 
of  your  business.  It's  none  of  your  business 
whether  I  get  shot  as  a  deserter,  or  go  home, 
or " 

"You  can  go  to  the  devil  for  all  I  care,"  I 
assured  him.  "I  wasn't  considering  you  at  all. 
I  was  only  sorry  that  I'll  never  be  able  to  read 
your  book." 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Hamlin  remained  silent, 
then  he  burst  forth  with  a  jeer. 

"No  British  firing  squad,"  he  boasted,  "will 
ever  stand  me  up." 

"Maybe  not,"  I  agreed,  "but  you  will  never 
write  that  book." 

Again  there  was  silence,  and  this  time  it 
was  broken  by  the  Kid.  He  turned  from  the 
window  and  looked  toward  Hamlin.  "That's 
right!"  he  said. 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  and  at 
the  deserter  pointed  his  forefinger. 

"Son,"  he  said,  "this  war  is  some  war.  It's 
the  biggest  war  in  history,  and  folks  will  be 
talking  about  nothing  else  for  the  next  ninety 

321 


THE  DESERTER 

years;  folks  that  never  were  nearer  it  than 
Bay  City,  Mich.  But  you  won't  talk  about  it. 
And  you've  been  all  through  it.  You've  been 
to  hell  and  back  again.  Compared  with  what 
you  know  about  hell,  Dante  is  in  the  same  class 
with  Dr.  Cook.  But  you  won't  be  able  to  talk 
about  this  war,  or  lecture,  or  write  a  book 
about  it." 

"I  won't?"  demanded  Hamlin.  "And  why 
won't  I?" 

"Because  of  what  you're  doing  now,"  said 
Billy.  "Because  you're  queering  yourself. 
Now,  you've  got  everything."  The  Kid  was 
very  much  in  earnest.  His  tone  was  intimate, 
kind,  and  friendly.  "  You've  seen  everything, 
done  everything.  We'd  give  our  eye-teeth  to 
see  what  you've  seen,  and  to  write  the  things 
you  can  write.  You've  got  a  record  now  that'll 
last  you  until  you're  dead,  and  your  grandchil 
dren  are  dead — and  then  some.  When  you 
talk  the  table  will  have  to  sit  up  and  listen. 
You  can  say  'I  was  there.'  'I  was  in  it.'  *I 
saw.'  'I  know.'  When  this  war  is  over  you'll 
have  everything  out  of  it  that's  worth  getting — • 
all  the  experiences,  all  the  inside  knowledge,  all 
the  'nosebag'  news;  you'll  have  wounds,  honors, 
medals,  money,  reputation.  And  you're  throw 
ing  all  that  away !" 

Mr.  Hamlin  interrupted  savagely. 
322 


THE  DESERTER 

"To  hell  with  their  medals,"  he  said.  "They 
can  take  their  medals  and  hang  'em  on  Christ 
mas  trees.  I  don't  owe  the  British  army  any 
thing.  It  owes  me.  I've  done  my  bit.  I've 
earned  what  I've  got,  and  there's  no  one  can 
take  it  away  from  me." 

"You  can,"  said  the  Kid.  Before  Hamlin 
could  reply  the  door  opened  and  John  came  in, 
followed  by  Uncle  Jim.  The  older  man  was 
looking  very  grave,  and  John  very  unhappy. 
Hamlin  turned  quickly  to  John. 

"  I  thought  these  men  were  friends  of  yours," 
he  began,  "and  Americans.  They're  fine  Amer 
icans.  They're  as  full  of  human  kindness  and 
red  blood  as  a  kippered  herring!" 

John  looked  inquiringly  at  the  Kid. 

"He  wants  to  hang  himself,"  explained  Billy, 
"and  because  we  tried  to  cut  him  down,  he's 


sore." 


"They  talked  to  me,"  protested  Hamlin,  "as 
though  I  was  a  yellow  dog.  As  though  I  was 
a  quitter.  I'm  no  quitter!  But,  if  I'm  ready 
to  quit,  who's  got  a  better  right?  I'm  not  an 
Englishman,  but  there  are  several  million  Eng 
lishmen  haven't  done  as  much  for  England  in 
this  war  as  I  have.  What  do  you  fellows  know 
about  it?  You  write  about  it,  about  the  'brave 
lads  in  the  trenches';  but  what  do  you  know 
about  the  trenches?  What  you've  seen  from 

323 


THE  DESERTER 

automobiles.  That's  all.  That's  where  you  get 
off !  I've  lived  in  the  trenches  for  fifteen  months, 
froze  in  'em,  starved  hi  'em,  risked  my  life  in 
'em,  and  I've  saved  other  lives,  too,  by  hauling 
men  out  of  the  trenches.  And  that's  no  airy 
persiflage,  either!" 

He  ran  to  the  wardrobe  where  John's  clothes 
hung,  and  from  the  bottom  of  it  dragged  a  khaki 
uniform.  It  was  still  so  caked  with  mud  and 
snow  that  when  he  flung  it  on  the  floor  it 
splashed  like  a  wet  bathing  suit.  "How  would 
you  like  to  wear  one  of  those?"  he  demanded. 
"Stinking  with  lice  and  sweat  and  blood;  the 
blood  of  other  men,  the  men  you've  helped  off 
the  field,  and  your  own  blood." 

As  though  committing  hara-kiri,  he  slashed 
his  hand  across  his  stomach,  and  then  drew  it 
up  from  his  waist  to  his  chin.  "I'm  scraped 
with  shrapnel  from  there  to  there,"  said  Mr. 
Hamlin.  "And  another  time  I  got  a  ball  in 
the  shoulder.  That  would  have  been  a  'blighty' 
for  a  fighting  man — they're  always  giving  them 
leave — but  all  I  'got  was  six  weeks  at  Havre  in 
hospital.  Then  it  was  the  Dardanelles,  and 
sunstroke  and  sand;  sleeping  in  sand,  eating 
sand,  sand  in  your  boots,  sand  in  your  teeth; 
hiding  in  holes  in  the  sand  like  a  dirty  prairie 
dog.  And  then,  'Off  to  ServiaP  And  the  next 
act  opens  in  the  snow  and  the  mud!  Cold? 

324 


THE  DESERTER 

God,  how  cold  it  was !  And  most  of  us  in  sun 
helmets." 

As  though  the  cold  still  gnawed  at  his  bones, 
he  shivered. 

"It  isn't  the  danger,"  he  protested.  "It 
isn't  that  I'm  getting  away  from.  To  hell  with 
the  danger!  It's  just  the  plain  discomfort  of 
it!  It's  the  never  being  your  own  master, 
never  being  clean,  never  being  warm."  Again 
he  shivered  and  rubbed  one  hand  against  the 
other.  "There  were  no  bridges  over  the 
streams,"  he  went  on,  "and  we  had  to  break  the 
ice  and  wade  in,  and  then  sleep  in  the  open 
with  the  khaki  frozen  to  us.  There  was  no 
firewood;  not  enough  to  warm  a  pot  of  tea. 
There  were  no  wounded;  all  our  casualties  were 
frost  bite  and  pneumonia.  When  we  take  them 
out  of  the  blankets  their  toes  fall  off.  We've 
been  in  camp  for  a  month  now  near  Doiran, 
and  it's  worse  there  than  on  the  march.  It's  a 
frozen  swamp.  You  can't  sleep  for  the  cold; 
can't  eat;  the  only  ration  we  get  is  bully  beef, 
and  our  insides  are  frozen  so  damn  tight  we 
can't  digest  it.  The  cold  gets  into  your  blood, 
gets  into  your  brains.  It  won't  let  you  think; 
or  else,  you  think  crazy  things.  It  makes  you 
afraid."  He  shook  himself  like  a  man  coining 
out  of  a  bad  dream. 

"So,    I'm   through,"   he  said.     In  turn   he 

325 


THE  DESERTER 

scowled  at  each  of  us,  as  though  defying  us  to 
contradict  him.  "That's  why  I'm  quitting," 
he  added.  "Because  I've  done  my  bit.  Be 
cause  I'm  damn  well  fed  up  on  it."  He  kicked 
viciously  at  the  water-logged  uniform  on  the 
floor.  "Any  one  who  wants  my  job  can  have 
it!"  He  walked  to  the  window,  turned  his 
back  on  us,  and  fixed  his  eyes  hungrily  on  the 
Adriaticus.  There  was  a  long  pause.  For 
guidance  we  looked  at  John,  but  he  was  staring 
down  at  the  desk  blotter,  scratching  on  it  marks 
that  he  did  not  see. 

Finally,  where  angels  feared  to  tread,  the  Kid 
rushed  in.  "That's  certainly  a  hard  luck 
story,"  he  said;  "but,"  he  added  cheerfully, 
"it's  nothing  to  the  hard  luck  you'll  strike 
when  you  can't  tell  why  you  left  the  army." 
Hamlin  turned  with  an  exclamation,  but  Billy 
held  up  his  hand.  "Now  wait,"  he  begged, 
"we  haven't  time  to  get  mussy.  At  six  o'clock 
your  leave  is  up,  and  the  troop  train  starts  back 
to  camp,  and— 

Mr.  Hamlin  interrupted  sharply.  "And  the 
Adriaticus  starts  at  five." 

Billy  did  not  heed  him.  !t  You've  got  two 
hours  to  change  your  mind,"  he  said.  "That's 
better  than  being  sorry  you  didn't  the  rest  of 
your  life." 

Mr.  Hamlin  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 
326 


THE  DESERTER 

It  was  a  most  unpleasant  laugh.  "You're  a  fine 
body  of  men,"  he  jeered.  "America  must  be 
proud  of  you !" 

"If  we  weren't  Americans,"  explained  Billy 
patiently,  "we  wouldn't  give  a  damn  whether 
you  deserted  or  not.  You're  drowning  and  you 
don't  know  it,  and  we're  throwing  you  a  rope. 
Try  to  see  it  that  way.  We'll  cut  out  the  fact 
that  you  took  an  oath,  and  that  you're  break 
ing  it.  That's  up  to  you.  We'll  get  down  to 
results.  When  you  reach  home,  if  you  can't 
tell  why  you  left  the  army,  the  folks  will  darned 
soon  guess.  And  that  will  queer  everything 
you've  done.  When  you  come  to  sell  your 
stuff,  it  will  queer  you  with  the  editors,  queer 
you  with  the  publishers.  If  they  know  you 
broke  your  word  to  the  British  army,  how  can 
they  know  you're  keeping  faith  with  them? 
How  can  they  believe  anything  you  tell  them? 
Every  *  story*  you  write,  every  statement  of 
yours  will  make  a  noise  like  a  fake.  You  won't 
come  into  court  with  clean  hands.  You'll  be 
licked  before  you  start. 

"Of  course,  you're  for  the  Allies.  Well,  all 
the  Germans  at  home  will  fear  that;  and  when 
you  want  to  lecture  on  your  'Fifteen  Months 
at  the  British  Front,'  they'll  look  up  your 
record;  and  what  will  they  do  to  you?  This  is 
what  they'll  do  to  you.  When  you've  shown 

327 


THE  DESERTER 

*em  your  moving  pictures  and  say,  'Does  any 
gentleman  in  the  audience  want  to  ask  a  ques 
tion?'  a  German  agent  will  get  up  and  say, 
'Yes,  I  want  to  ask  a  question.  Is  it  true  that 
you  deserted  from  the  British  army,  and  that  if 
you  return  to  it,  they  will  shoot  you  ? ' 

I  was  scared.  I  expected  the  lean  and  mus 
cular  Mr.  Hamlin  to  fall  on  Billy,  and  fling  him 
where  he  had  flung  the  soggy  uniform.  But 
instead  he  remained  motionless,  his  arms  pressed 
across  his  chest.  His  eyes,  filled  with  anger 
and  distress,  returned  to  the  Adriaticus. 

"I'm  sorry,"  muttered  the  Kid. 

John  rose  and  motioned  to  the  door,  and 
guiltily  and  only  too  gladly  we  escaped.  John 
followed  us  into  the  hall.  "Let  me  talk  to 
Kim,"  he  whispered.  "The  boat  sails  in  an 
hour.  Please  don't  come  back  until  she's 
gone." 

We  went  to  the  moving  picture  palace  next 
door,  but  I  doubt  if  the  thoughts  of  any  of  us 
were  on  the  pictures.  For  after  an  hour,  when 
from  across  the  quay  there  came  the  long-drawn 
warning  of  a  steamer's  whistle,  we  nudged  each 
other  and  rose  and  went  out. 

Not  a  hundred  yards  from  us  the  propeller 
blades  of  the  Adriaticus  were  slowly  churning, 
and  the  rowboats  were  falling  away  from  her 
sides. 

328 


THE  DESERTER 

" Good-bye,  Mr.  Hamlin,"  called  Billy.  "You 
had  everything  and  you  chucked  it  away.  I 
can  spell  your  finish.  It's  'check*  for  yours." 

But  when  we  entered  our  room,  in  the  centre 
of  it,  under  the  bunch  of  electric  lights,  stood 
the  deserter.  He  wore  the  water-logged  uni 
form.  The  sun  helmet  was  on  his  head. 

"Good  man!"  shouted  Billy. 

He  advanced,  eagerly  holding  out  his  hand. 

Mr.  Hamlin  brushed  past  him.  At  the  door 
he  turned  and  glared  at  us,  even  at  John.  He 
was  not  a  good  loser.  "  I  hope  you're  satisfied," 
he  snarled.  He  pointed  at  the  four  beds  in  a 
row.  I  felt  guiltily  conscious  of  them.  At  the 
moment  they  appeared  so  unnecessarily  clean 
and  warm  and  soft.  The  silk  coverlets  at  the 
foot  of  each  struck  me  as  being  disgracefully 
effeminate.  They  made  me  ashamed. 

"I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Hamlin,  speaking  slowly 
and  picking  his  words,  "when  you  turn  into 
those  beds  to-night  you'll  think  of  me  in  the 
mud.  I  hope  when  you're  having  your  five- 
course  dinner  and  your  champagne  you'll  re 
member  my  bully  beef.  I  hope  when  a  shell 
or  Mr.  Pneumonia  gets  me,  you'll  write  a  nice 
little  sob  story  about  the  *  brave  lads  in  the 
trenches. ' ' 

He  looked  at  us,  standing  like  schoolboys, 
sheepish,  embarrassed,  and  silent,  and  then 

329 


THE  DESERTER 

threw  open  the  door.     "I   hope,"    he    added, 
"you  all  choke!" 

With  an  unconvincing  imitation  of  the  college 
chum  manner,  John  cleared  his  throat  and  said: 
"Don't  forget,  Fred,  if  there's  anything  I  can 

T      » 

Hamlin  stood  in  the  doorway  smiling  at  us. 

"There's  something  you  can  all  do,"  he  said. 

"Yes?"  asked  John  heartily. 

"You  can  all  go  to  hell !"  said  Mr.  Hamlin. 

We  heard  the  door  slam,  and  his  hobnailed 
boots  pounding  down  the  stairs.  No  one  spoke. 
Instead,  in  unhappy  silence,  we  stood  staring 
at  the  floor.  Where  the  uniform  had  Iain  was 
a  pool  of  mud  and  melted  snow  and  the  darker 
stains  of  stale  blood. 


DATE  DUE 


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